My Little Black Ache
by istandcorrected
Summary: AU AH OOC Canon pairings. After surviving an eighteen month prior suicide attempt, Bella has a new outlook on life and begins to take hold of the power of her personal choices to shape who she is becoming. In the midst of this, Bella and Edward collide.
1. Prologue: Quiet as a Hurricane

**I own nothing but my musings.**

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Summary: AU AH OOC. _"One choice is sometimes all people can see about you, all they define you as."_ BxE

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My Little Black Ache

Prologue: Quiet as a Hurricane

BPOV

Where I'm supposed to be is sitting amongst frog diagrams and surgical tools. The smell of formaldehyde should be wafting up my nostrils, causing my stomach to flip in a dangerous fashion notifying me of oncoming bile.

I should be putting on latex gloves and lifting a scalpel to slice down the center of the bloated frog in jar 17X that has been assigned to me, whispering prayers to the gods of faint and vomit to get me through this Biology rite of passage.

I should be pulling out his organs and attaching them with pins to my sponge board, labeling them in my chicken scratch. This is frog 17X's gallbladder. This is frog 17X's liver. This is frog 17X's tiny left atrium full to capacity with putrid formaldehyde.

All of this useless-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things knowledge should be catalogued and organized into an uninspired, unoriginal 3000+ word paper due the following Monday.

But I'm not there. I'm not where I am supposed to be.

I'm not seated at my usual partner-less lab table going through the motions of dissection with my friend 17X. Not because I am staging a protest against frog dissection, not because my stomach hates to be acquainted with anything blood and guts related, and not because I am a chronic class skipper.

No, none of these reasons explain my absence from Mr. Banner's class this Friday afternoon.

Rather, I'm ankle deep in mud, squatting with my back against an ash tree with the bark pressing through my too thin gray T-shirt for the wet weather. Really, it could be worse; it could be pouring instead of misting.

At least I can still light my cigarettes and continue chain smoking the rest of my pack. Using this opportunity to develop a skill that really matters, I attempt to blow smoke rings with my Lucky Strikes. I light one after the other after the other like it's going out of style to smoke in the woods behind the school.

Lungs are over rated, mine and frog 17X's both.

My hands are tracing circles in the dirt at my feet and I'm watching the mud cake underneath my fingernails. It seems I can never just be still. This is just a mindless activity for my hands to pursue as I allow the hurricane of emotions, which are circling from anger to nausea to anger to nausea, roll through me.

The nausea comes when I think about 17X's pancreas or small intestine too much. And maybe the six consecutive cigarettes have something to do with the queasiness.

The anger relates directly to Mr. Banner, my arrogant Biology teacher.

Three days prior to this moment in the woods I was trapped in a meeting with Mr. Banner, my father Charlie, and Mr. Greene the principle. The scene was three middle aged men making a decision about what I can or can not handle as far as blades are concerned. How kind to let me observe while sitting invisible in a blue stripped office chair, tearing threads out of the seat's fabric and piling them neatly next to me on the floor. Yet another mindless activity for my hands to pursue so I could keep my mouth shut.

It's not even important that I regurgitate the dialogue because the interesting part is what was going unspoken. The subtext is where the real conversation was happening.

Mr. Banner wanted to make it clear that he didn't feel comfortable with me handling a scalpel in his class.

I wanted to see how many square inches of cloth I could destroy with my thread pulling.

The principle wanted to make sure he wasn't offending my father by mentioning my history with sharp objects.

I wanted to question him on who exactly matched the navy blue pinstriped pattern I was sitting on with the puke green color of his walls. Was this an attempt at a calming color scheme?

Charlie wanted to avoid talking about my eighteen month prior suicide attempt. Talking about it just might require acknowledging it, and that is not something Charlie is prepared to do.

Charlie has this nervous tick he does whenever the subject is almost broached. He subconsciously taps his finger against his right cheek while his eyebrows are furrowed, as if sending Morse code that translates roughly to shut the hell up. Tap, tap-tap, tap.

At the rate this conversation was dancing around the issue I'm surprised he didn't break through his cheek with all the tapping. Some day that stubby finger will wear down a gulch into the side of his face.

I wanted to get the hell out of the room before the weight of everything that was going unsaid pulled me apart at the seams in the same fashion I was unraveling the upholstery.

The whole issue was ludicrous. The notion that I will fall to pieces the minute I have something sharp in my hand is outlandish. For some reason this assertion is not comforting when it comes from me. These men are really concerned that I will be tempted to slit my wrists all over again right there at my black Formica lab desk.

The school would need to make it into a memorial dedicated to me in the middle of Mr. Banner's classroom. I can picture the meaningless goodbye notes, the stuffed pink bears and plastic flowers that would be placed in tribute to me.

Hollow gestures from students who only see my scars while I walk here living among them. Still, they would immortalize my lab desk if I gave them the chance. It seems every high schooler has to have one death touch them, and I would be the martyr, the payment to the gods of teenage revelry that kept the rest of my classmates safe through their impressionable years.

I'm sure Mr. Greene was already tabulating the cost of such a venture and trying to determine how long the memorial would need to be left alone until they could clear away the disingenuous mementoes. Would a memorial service be needed in the science room? How long would the moment of silence have to be? Would they have to name a building after me? Would the circumstances of my death make school support inappropriate?

Of course, Mr. Banner wouldn't come right out and say that was what was making him nervous. Instead, he pretended like he was doing me a favor by granting me a reprieve from an uncomfortable situation for my own good. He voiced his request in calming dulcet tones as if we were talking about depriving a preschooler of a dangerous toy.

I had left the meeting before the decision was made because there was a deep seated scream welling up closer to my lips begging for release. I decided that screaming in the middle of that context would just push everyone's view of my crazy over the edge, forcing me to deal with a lot more than missing a dissection. Instead, I opted for smoking in the parking lot and fiddling with the door handle to the cruiser like a small child, as if I could develop the magic power needed to open a locked door on a whim.

So I am not in Biology because they decided I can't be trusted with a scalpel. Because clearly I am a walking time bomb waiting to create a grand display of teenage angst and slit my wrists at any chance. Obviously my Biology class is the prime setting. Why oh why didn't I think of it sooner? Thank you Mr. Greene and Mr. Banner for the suggestion.

A scalpel wasn't even my blade of choice. Where the hell does a teenager get access to a scalpel? Razor blades and sleeping pills were more then sufficient, or nearly so in my case.

One choice is sometimes all people can see about you, all they define you as.

I guess a better argument to combat their concerns would be to point out that I am no longer suicidal. That I know for certain.

I'm sure if I actually voice that assurance aloud to any of them it would illicit a scoff, or an eye roll at the very least.

In this moment in the woods I allow the angry-nauseous cycle to continue. Running my now dirty fingers over my three inch vertical scars on either wrist between drags on my cigarette soothes me until I hear the bell chime for the end of the period and summon me to gym class.

I wonder if I can make the argument of choosing volleyball as a suicide method to get me out of gym for the rest of the semester. The mental image of slamming my head repeatedly into the pole holding the volleyball net brings a smile to my lips. What kind of memorial would that entail? Too bad Coach Clapp is only afraid of my inept coordination and not my history with razor blades. Flicking away the last butt, I enter the gym leaving a trail of good ole Washington sludge in my wake, hyped up on enough nicotine to get me through this last class.

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**A/N: Leave me your thoughts...**


	2. Chp 1: Lucky as a Gypsy Curse

**Chapter 1: Lucky as a Gypsy Curse**

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A few hours later I find myself in the midst of this lovely setting:

Gyrating bodies; 50 cent blasting through speakers; red solo cups with bladder bloating bliss in every hand; girls in next to nothing tank tops; boys ogling the cleavage on display like it's the ticket to fulfillment of the teen dream. If my boobs look hot enough in this shirt, I'll be happy. If I she lets me grab a handful and round the bases I'll be happy.

We're all such products of the MTV generation. What would our parties look like if we hadn't viewed scene after scene of cliché setups on television and in movies?

And I, I am yet another parade of teenage angst and nothingness at this party. Just like everyone else, my heart and life scream so loud for my personal tragedy to be heard that I blend in with the chorus of shrieks around me and become white noise. We all cancel each other out in that way. I'm trying to learn how to be quiet. In a world that tells me to shout to be heard, I'm trying to sit and listen.

Oh, don't think I'm above it. In no way am I above it. It actually makes me smile to think that this equation works for most of the people in this room. Cheap beer + loud music + lowered inhibitions= a good time. Maybe tonight is the magical night I will be included in this formula.

In an attempt to quell my ever present musings and just be, I down another shot. I want to just be content with being in this room, with my supposed peers, enjoying the cheap beer and loud music. Somehow, I don't think standing alone in the kitchen slamming down shot after shot of cheap vodka qualifies as spending quality time with my classmates. But I let this realization shift to the back of my mind and pour another.

_Breathe Bella, breathe. Don't pass out; don't vomit, just hold your shit together for once._

The small part of my brain that is still fighting off drunken oblivion is running this internal warning through my mind. I am a fool for thinking I could just have a shot or two and stay in control. There ia a reason I had initiated a drinking embargo, breaking it at a party where none of my real friends have yet to make an appearance is a poor choice.

Already I'm seven shots in, and it's the cheap acidic stuff. This isn't exactly a Grey Goose party, Barton's is more appropriate. I can feel it burning the skin of my esophagus as it goes down; meeting with my ham sandwich from earlier and my stomach juices. This is all mostly mental, but still I picture the party going on in my belly right now.

Who will hold my hair when the dam breaks and this ham-vodka-stomach-acid concoction is free? Glancing around the room to see only a blur of somewhat familiar faces, I find no suitable candidates. I doubt that Jessica Stanley will be up to the task. We haven't had a real conversation in over two years.

Suicide attempts tend to put a damper on small talk about menial shit like the weather. Especially when all there ever is to say here is that it's raining. It's always raining. Call it drizzling, down pouring, showering, misting, sprinkling, trickling, spitting, or dribbling. In the end it's all just rain.

As if on cue, Jess walks over to where I'm leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Bella! It's so good to see you! I haven't talked to you in so long!" Her voice squeaks an octave higher then usual in greeting and her words are slurred. She gives me one of those lean in hugs where we don't really hug but just angle our bodies towards one another and pat forearms. This allows me an unfortunate view of the deodorant trails up and down her too tight black shirt. Her dark massive curls are frizzing like mad, the flyaways twisting in small knots that will hurt like hell to brush out tomorrow. But Jessica is already too drunk to care about small things like tangled hair and deodorant marks. At least, that's what her glazed look says to me.

"Hey." For all my internal observations, this is all that I deem socially appropriate to say out loud to an acquaintance.

Already, I'm looking for a way out of the conversation that's about to happen. _Sorry Jessica, I need to go into the living room and do anything but talk to you._ I'm wondering why I didn't saw off my left arm and leave it in the other room so I'd have an excuse to not have this chat. _Please excuse me Jess, my arm really needs tending to, and the way my blood is squirting from my Cephalic vein doesn't looks so good either._ At the moment, nothing smooth is coming to mind, so I'm forced to just stand here and smile my plastic smile at her. _Why the hell am I here if I can't even make small talk?_

Oblivious to my mental cringe at being in her presence, Jessica prattles on. "I never see you at these things any more. It's been so long since I saw you at a party." Then I watch as her eyes come away from my face, travel down to my bare arms, and take in my scars. I can literally see her eyes widen in her inebriated state as she remembers exactly what event triggered the end to my party going.

This is why I don't cover my wrists. They always provide a way out of surface conversation. When people know you've contemplated your mortality in a real way that is evidenced on your skin, they are less likely to make filler conversation.

I clear my throat and bring my hand up to scratch my face. Jessica shifts her eyes to follow the movement of the jagged scar and therefore looks back up to my eyes.

"Well, it's not usually my scene; too many people. Being suffocated by pungent boy sweat and spilling sticky drinks on myself has kinda lost its appeal. Plus we all know I can't dance." I shrug, dismissing her as I leave the sanctuary of the kitchen before the pity creeps into her eyes and her tone.

Really I should be nicer to Jessica Stanley. Once upon a time when a different Bella walked the earth we were friends. When we were twelve we would share phone calls about the cute boys in our classes and ruminate on how quickly our boobs would grow. You know, all that very important stuff. And Jessica hasn't changed; she kept up her end of the friendship by staying predictable and constant. I am the one who threw a kink in our relationship with the whole slit-wrists-experience.

Before I can dwell on this too long, the sound of an altercation rises above the thumping bass of the music and reaches me. I follow the muffled bellowing and rumbling to one of the bedrooms down the hall way. Peeking around the door frame, I take in a testosterone filled display.

Two guys are squaring off against each other, poised with tense muscles, veins popping as they scream at each other. One I recognize. It's Mike Newton, blonde captain of the baseball team Mike. This is his house that we're partying in. He is providing the setting for all of the teenage revelry that is going down tonight.

Now, how do I explain Mike….. We are all cleverer than others at something. For example, Rosalie is more naturally inclined towards math and academics in general. Jasper definitely has the edge when it comes to creative stuff like art and magic. Emmett is a master of physical energy and body kinesthesia. I am an expert at providing gossip and being a jaded pessimist. And Mike, of course, is very fast at shining apples. He is the human embodiment of a golden retriever, good-natured but not necessarily the brightest crayon in the box.

Thus, it is very odd to see Mike screaming at anyone. His voice is charged as he yells at a bronze haired stranger, who matches him tone for tone in returning bellows. This guy also matches Mike's athletic build muscle for muscle and puts our captain-of-the-sport-team's classic good looks to shame. His plain black t-shirt and worn-in-just-so jeans hug his wonderful form in a way that threatens drool on my part. Even in the middle of a screaming match where he's bulging with rage I can tell that this boy is the most attractive thing I've ever seen. His beat red face contrasts with his deep green eyes as he curses vehemently at Mike. Little drops of saliva are flying in the midst of his anger. I am enticed by all of the passion; he is a burning man before me.

I watch the two go back and forth with the yelling. I'm still too distracted by the strange boy's good looks to determine what exactly they are arguing about. But then I'm able to tear my eyes away from his wonderful form and I see a petite girl with cropped raven hair pinned between them. She is also a stranger. They're each grabbing one of her arms, clutching her like a dog toy stuck in a tug of war between them. Her face is pale, and it looks like she is on the verge of crying. Her mouth is shaped in a small "o" of concern and her green eyes are wide as she glances back and forth between Mike and Mr. Enchanting.

She is the cause of this argument. However, before I gain full use of my ability to discern words or a context to this dispute, the hyped up guys drop the girl and start lunging towards each other.

For some reason, this is the moment my body chooses to overrule my mind and intervene without my permission.

My legs launch me in their midst, and my arms rise in an attempt to hold them back from one another. As if my five foot three inch, hundred and ten pound frame is going to stop the collision of two six foot plus men. Clearly my body is trying to teach me some sort of lesson by throwing itself into this situation. However, there is not enough time to figure out what I'm punishing myself for. All that's there is a fist connecting with my face with the force of a freight train.

And then it all slows down. Time freezes and allows me to take in each expression in the room. Minutes pass and no word is spoken.

Already my lip is swelling to bee sting proportions, overemphasizing my already oversized pout, and my smile is making it hurt worse. The grin I'm sporting is stretching my poor lip across my teeth so the place it split is tearing wider while I laugh. But I don't mind. A deep belly laugh is welling up from within me and pouring out of my bruised mouth.

People always treat me with kid gloves, like I'm too fragile and breakable to stand on my own. Being punched in the face is a nice change of pace. Also, it has sobered me up quite a bit.

Crimson droplets are making their way down my face where they plop plop plop right off my chin to the top of my left breast. The dark moist stain is slowly spreading to cover the last few letters of my band logo. Now I'm a walking billboard for Vampire Weeke rather than my original intent. And my body is still shaking with incomprehensible laughter; my whole being is vibrating with the joy tumbling around in me.

The only depressing fleeting thought that passes through my mind is that now one of my favorite t-shirts has a blood stain, making it socially unacceptable to wear in public ever again.

And then even this thought twists and fuels the laughing fire. I try to start swallowing my blood, which is flowing at a surprising rate, to save my shirt from further damage.

The realization that I'm still in Mike Newton's house washes over me. I look up to see three very confused faces, eyes wide in concern as they watch me sprawled on the bedroom floor in hysterics. Mike's mouth is hanging open in slack jawed surprise.

The tiny girl's mouth is still in her little "o" but now the concerned expression applies to me.

It's funny to think of how our rolls have reversed. I took her spot in the center of this feud, claiming it with my lips, teeth and blood.

And Mr. Enticing is holding up his offending fist and glancing from me to it and back again. The look of horror on his face when he looks at his hand just makes me crack up more. Tears are streaming down my face at this point.

"Fuck. Shit. Fuck." He stutters. Apparently I'm the only one who finds the humor in the way this scene is playing out.

As if his curses have the power to break the bubble surrounding us, more party attendees come crashing through the doorway to see the source of all the commotion. Among the random faces I spot my constituents making their way towards me.

Emmett's monstrous form clears the doorway with only a half inch to spare both from the width of his muscles and his crop of dark curls topping his height along the header of the frame. His blue eyes are hard as glass and his stance clearly displays his fighting nature as he surveys the room.

Emmett has a habit of evaluating social situations on the basis of whether or not he could win in a fight to the death with the parties involved. Right about now I think he has already eliminated Mike as any kind of threat; their previous run-ins having clarified Mike's place in the pecking order.

I watch as his eyes rake over Mr. Entrancing while he assesses him. What's eccentric about Emmett is that even if we weren't in a situation where a punch had just been thrown he would still size up the room this way.

Per usual, Emmett's other half, Rosalie, is not far behind. She situates herself perfectly in the center of the room and places her hands on her hips, effectively taking the I'm-in-charge-of-this-now position. Her flawless blond haired, blue eyed beauty falls second only to her confidence on the list of things you notice about her foremost. With her hair tide off in a side ponytail and the serious look on her face she emanates a don't-fuck-with-me attitude.

To complete the lineup of our broody bunch, my partner in crime and true confidant finally enters the room. This is who I've been waiting for ever since I arrived at this party so I would finally feel comfortable. The Tom Sawyer to my Huck Finn, the Xena to my Gabrielle, the Donna to my Jackie. The Jasper to my Bella.

Jasper, my Jasper, enters following the others. The agile runner's body of my best friend is by my side in less then a blink of an eye, meeting me on the floor. Scooping me up, he piles me on his lap and draws me into his chest so hard I'm nearly crushing the aviator sunglasses he has looped into his plain white t-shirt.

Around me his arms tense, and he has me pulled into him in such a way that I can hardly see what is going on around me in the room anymore. I'm overwhelmed by his inherent scent of sandalwood and all I have view of is Jasper's sandy blond hair in disarray and the stubble on his chin that scratches my forehead.

"Before I kill the wrong person, someone needs to tell me who did this and what the fuck is going on here." Jasper's voice comes out in a threateningly quiet manner. I feel the reverb through his chest as he voices his question.

No one answers Jasper, fearing the steel in his voice.

I try to tell Jasper that he is going to get blood on one of his signature pristine white t-shirts if he doesn't let go a little. However it comes out more like "Mhrrm mmmhr rmmr," because my sore bloody mouth is now pressed into his shoulder. I just keep swallowing down, in gulps now, trying not to bring another article of clothing into ruin tonight.

The realization that he's suffocating me in his attempt to protect me must dawn on him because he slowly draws me away from his chest. His eyes meet mine and I can tell that he's inwardly freaking out over the state my face is in.

So I smile. I let loose a huge all-face-encompassing smile in order to comfort my best friend and let him know I'm okay. Really, because I am. It's not like anyone dies from a split lip and a bruised jaw. I just hope there's not a lot of blood spread across my pearly whites. Besides, with the alcohol coursing through my veins I can barely feel the throbbing.

When this is not enough, I try words. "Jasper, this is perhaps the best party I've ever been to. I've only been her for an hour but I'm already seven shots in and I managed to get punched in the face." I watch as his face relaxes infinitesimally at hearing my voice.

Jasper releases the breath he was holding. "Shit Bella, you broke the drinking embargo without me? Can't I let you go anywhere alone?"

"Bastard! Don't ruin what is for sure to be a memorable evening with your doubts of my party prowess." I wink, and Jasper laughs.

This, this is how in sync we are. I can move Jasper from death threats to laughter with a few words and thankfully it's reciprocal. We are the anti-venom to each others snakebites.

Slowly, Jasper brings me to a standing position and lets me out of his death grip. Still he leaves his hand grasping my elbow to keep me steady. No one needs a clumsy Bella falling incident as icing on this cake.

I turn and take in all the faces in the room. There are too many people here to make me feel comfortable, but I know that some sort of statement or explanation is warranted after the absurdity that has been the last few minutes.

Clearing my throat and swallowing the bloody spit concoction that has nested there, I address the crowd, "Um, well everybody, let's just chalk all this up to a ridiculous inebriated experience. You know the usual Forks party happenings; people punching, people laughing, people threatening lives. For those of you who aren't drunk, I recommend you get to drinking."

I clap my hands once and wave the crowd away. Rosalie swoops in and closes the bedroom door leaving only my friends, Mike, and the two strangers.

Just then, the gurgling in my tummy starts. My stomach is unwilling to tolerate another swallow of blood infused spit on my quest to remain vomit free. At last the belly flip I was expecting earlier today makes an appearance.

Apparently my half digested ham sandwich and my blood have brought it to blows in my belly, and I'm going to hurl.

I grab Jasper's forearm and direct myself to the house plant in the corner where I promptly let loose the hell storm from within. I vaguely feel him grabbing hold of my hair to save it from the oncoming mess. The way the leaves feel against my cheek makes me think they are artificial. Everything comes raging through my mouth in waves, and with the copper blood taste mixed in it feels as if there is more to this then food. Like there might be organs in the mix. The mental image of leaving my spleen in the pot of this god awful plastic umbrella tree makes the retching increase ten fold. Airing my entrails through my mouth; that's what I'm picturing.

Finally, my stomach has emptied itself of its disgusting brew and I collapse back against Jasper's knees. He reaches down to pick me off the ground, because even though I just spewed he is still the beans to my burrito.

The back of my hand does not have the magic ability to erase my bad breath or dissolve any vomit chunks still in my teeth, but it is all I have to work with here. After some futile wiping, I look down at my hand to see it covered in blood, my blood, sticky and warm.

My vision is shrinking while the room turns grey, and I am no longer in it.

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**A/N: What makes you faint?**


	3. Chp 2: Test of your Tenacity

I should be filled with compassion for the old woman standing in front of me. Her hands, covered in bright cerulean veins that are bulging and resemble a road map, are shaking as she attempts to write out a check. Her gnarled fingers are twisting around the ball point pen attached to my register with a short chain as she loops her cursive lettering.

It's been at least six minutes and the neighborhood cat lady still hasn't finished the word 'dollars' yet. The clicking the chain makes as it slaps the counter with the pace of her slow writing is making me want to rip the pen from her grasp and shove it into her eye socket.

Like I said, I should be filled with compassion, but I'm not. Rather, I want to retch because the combination of the clack clack clacking of the chain on the counter and the smell of feline piss that is wafting off of this decrepit old woman is just pushing my hangover to the edge.

When I try to picture myself aging, I get nothing. I can't imagine my face with wrinkles, my skin with liver marks, and my hands with road mapped veins. I can't picture myself in any other state of being then what I am. Envisioning myself at thirty five, or even twenty for that matter seems impossible, as if all I have is the current week to exist in and anything beyond that is blanketed in something impenetrable by my imagination.

For awhile now it seems like all I have is the present. This doesn't so much stem from an ability to live in the moment as an inability to see what the future holds after I decided I didn't want it. My after-the-incident life feels a bit like a clip rolling after the credits of a movie. I exist in what was meant to be a deleted scene.

In an attempt to quell my quease, I stare at the 3 button on my cash register. Hopefully the focal point will get me through this; isn't that a mental distraction technique they pass on for women to use in labor? If it can help when easing a watermelon out of a vagina then it should help me make it through this customer.

Seven fifteen an hour is just not enough on this particular Saturday morning. Newton's Olympic Outfitters is not exactly my ideal workplace, but Forks offers slim pickings for part-time jobs. It's either this or the diner, and balancing a tray of food is just not going to happen.

Food tastes better before it gets dropped on the floor and then wrangled back into its bun.

Finally the old bag is done with her check, and I turn to finish ringing up her purchase only to discover……

"Mrs. Rodabaugh, it comes to $31.15, not $13.51. Can you fix your check for me please?" I smile my plastic smile and pull the sleeve of my Newton's t-shirt up to my mouth, breathing through it as a filter against the cat piss stench. The mental picture of the tainted cat urine spores in the air making there way to nest in my lungs and be absorbed by my body send a shudder through me.

Mrs. Rodabaugh is scowling at me now, as if I personally took over her arthritis ridden fingers and caused her to transpose her check. I would rather be euthanized then end up anything like this old woman. Really, this calls for a raise.

I shouldn't even be here. Jasper should've let me call in sick. My attempt to let loose last evening resulted in a fail fest, the ending of which I don't remember in the slightest. Being punched in the face by a stranger and getting acquainted with a fake umbrella plant are the last things I can dredge up.

When I run through last night in my mind it's like watching a foreign film with no subtitles backwards. The basic plot is there, but the details are clouded.

All I know is that I was jarred awake to find myself on Jasper's couch this morning with bloody clothes on smelling like puke. He threw some of my work clothes my way that had been stashed in my truck and insisted that going to work hung over with a swollen face would encourage me to reinstate the drinking embargo. Unfortunately for me, this theory of his is working. It is tempting to wish damnation on Jasper and his tough love, but I must admit he is effective. I doubt I'll be throwing back vodka shots anytime soon.

The only blessing Jasper left me was his sunglasses, which are invaluable. It makes me feel undeservedly trusted, they are one of his prized possessions and he knows I'm prone to breaking things.

The aviators are covering a huge portion of my face, because obviously they are Jasper sized, not fun sized for my convenience. Even here indoors they are one hundred percent necessary, because without them I'm pretty sure the florescent lights in Newton's will succeed in their attempt to burn out my retinas.

I wish I could crawl out of my skin because I'm just so damn uncomfortable standing here working the register in my long-sleeved black shirt and wrinkled khakis. No matter how loose I attempt to make my hair band, the birds nest it is holding together pulls at my skull with horsepower forces. My brain is fuzzy and my mouth feels grainy and I can't stop running my tongue over my still swollen lip. Perhaps the worst is that I'm still sweating the alcohol out from my pores. This is just unpleasant and culminates in a wonderful self image.

At long last Mrs. Rodabaugh is finished, and she hands me her now altered check. I avoid touching her crippled fingers when I take it from her hand as if arthritis is contagious. I don't even look at the check; because at this point I could care less if it is made out to Mickey Mouse. I just need her to get far away from me or I will blow chunks in the brand new rucksack she's just purchased.

I squeeze my eyes closed and blindly wave the receipt around until Mrs. Rodabaugh pulls it from my hand. I just can't handle looking imminent senescent death in the face anymore; demise by a declining existence is something I find morbid. The slow loss of bodily functions as you return to an infantile state and eventually pass into oblivion scares me more then any other type of death.

Finally, I hear the chain of bells on the door sing their chime, signaling a return to my pined for isolation, and I release my clenched face.

This has been my first customer interaction of the day, and I have to admit it went fairly well considering my condition.

Finally I'm alone in the store, which means restocking time for me, the ever productive worker. I walk through each aisle, picking up the discarded items and returning them to their rightful place on the shelves. All these camping supplies deserve a shot at fulfilling their purpose. I don't want them to be overlooked because someone has already relegated them to the floor in the hunt for a different color. Strange that my empathy is stirred more by these inanimate objects then the elderly of my community.

Due to this job, I now have all sorts of useless knowledge. I'm practically an expert on hiking and camping supplies. I can peddle a waterproof lighter with a built in compass and thermometer with the best of them. Selling camping gear is an innate skill I have found myself to possess.

This is somewhat ironic because I've never been camping in my life. I've never even slept outside. I've never had a drink from a flowing stream, I've never fished for my own lunch, and I've never used a compass anywhere except right here inside Newton's.

Apparently you don't need to experience some things to convince others of your expertise. The few people who make use of this store never question my advice on what brand of tent to purchase or which portable water filtration system works best. Having Newton's Outfitters emblazoned across my chest is like the outdoorsman equivalent to medical credentials on the wall for a doctor. This is all I need to show my proficiency.

In the middle of hunting around the first aid section in search of instant cold compress packs for my face, the chiming of the door bells rings out, beckoning me back to the front of the store. I shuffle back only to be greeted halfway down the aisle by a confused looking, attractive older man. He's attractive in that man pretty kind of way, which really doesn't do it for me that much, but I can still appreciate good bone structure when I see it. Plus he's old, like upper thirties, and while I have daddy issues I don't go that route of dealing with them. Avoidance is my game.

Even setting aside the fact that I know everyone in town, I would still realize this man is either only passing through or a new resident. His Patek watch and diamond clad wedding band tell me he has seen bigger and better places then our little Forks. Men don't exactly wear diamonds around here.

Ever the salesman, I smile in greeting. It loses its intended effect when it splits my lip open again. This makes me feel awkward so I involuntarily bite at my lip, only creating more havoc. Having an oral fixation where you chew on your bottom lip and having a cut trying to heal there does not mix well.

"Oh my God, what happened to your face?" The stranger voices, and then brings his hand up to cover his mouth, as if he could shove the question back in and reverse his impolite query.

Most people in town wouldn't even bat an eye at the state my face is in. Bruises and Bella go together like salt and seawater. You can't separate the two.

I scan through my medly of injury memories, and even in this brief moment I am able to recall a broken ankle from attempting a back walkover during fourth grade recess, a sprained wrist from falling _up_ the stairs outside the library, and seven stitches needed to repair a head wound received from falling on drift wood at La Push Beach. These are only a few from my vast collection. I am no stranger to physical pain, it is a frequent companion.

If I wasn't the police chief's daughter there would have been abuse allegations years ago. My public displays of clumsiness out and about town must have helped quell those suspicions if anyone harbored them.

Honestly, we don't have any physical contact really. No abusive smacks, let alone hugs for that matter. This used to bother me when I was small, but now the peculiarity rarely strikes me.

"Please let me apologize for my discourtesy, are you okay?" The concern that is gripping him as his eyes rake over my face is something that unsettles me. I'm not used to grownups being concerned.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen. I'm a doctor; I could take a look at that lip for you." He starts moving towards me, and I'm nervous he'll reach out and take a hold of my lip before I have the chance to decline his offer.

Taking a few steps back and holding my hands up like he's trying to mug me, I sputter, "Um, no thanks. Just a split lip, no doctoring needed. I was actually looking for a cold compress to help with the swelling, so don't worry. It's under control."

To prove my claim I pluck the previously undetectable compress box and clutch it to my side. The man just stands there, still staring.

Returning the brazen inspection, I take in more then first detected. Dr. Cullen's eyes are red rimmed and his stature is hunched and tense. The disparity between this troublesome state and his GQ attire ignites my inquisitive nature. It's as if he was carrying the weight of the world in on his back with only his Italian leather loafers to support him before breezing into Newton's.

I clear my throat, "Is there anything in particular I can help you find?"

He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he answers, "Yes actually. I need to purchase everything needed for a family of four to go on a camping trip." He brings his hand up and runs it through his hair, ruining its careful placement, then pinches the bridge of his nose. It is as if he is being held here at gunpoint, rather then walking into an outdoors store to willingly buy camping equipment. Like we're talking about death and not a family outing.

I just can't let my curiosity go. "Why? It seems like you really hate camping."

Obviously, I'm not thinking of sales at this point. I just can't figure out why this man would want to drop potentially hundreds of dollars preparing for an activity he evidently has a strong aversion to.

"I'm trying to plan a camping trip to reconnect with my family, but the great outdoors are not exactly my forte. I'm a little nervous." He admits. I bet he found this idea in a family magazine. Most likely the article featured five easy steps to reconnecting with your family in nature. I bet it was written by a single guy.

"Well, my camping expertise knows no bounds; I'm a nature aficionado. In less than an hour you will be prepared for any type of outdoor excursion." This has the potential to occupy me for the rest of my shift. I am silently thankful for the man offering a way for time to pass quickly.

He smiles and some of the tension comes out of his body.

"Any type of budget I need to keep in mind?" There is no smooth way to bring up the subject of finances, but I need to know what I'm working with.

"No, I give you free reign; just don't screw me over too much." Still he's grimacing and I can't tell if it is because he thinks I'll take advantage of his pocket or if the whole experience has him frazzled.

"No worries, Dr. Cullen, I don't work on commission."'

"Please, call me Carlisle, if I trust you with an unlimited budget to put towards tents and coolers you can at least use my first name." Obviously Carlisle thinks he's one of those cool grown ups that uses his first name with teenagers. I wonder if he lets his kids call him Carlisle to make up for whatever this camping trip is trying to remedy.

I begin by grabbing a cart which I regulate to Carlisle and we start touring every aisle to gather essentials. Initially I offer him choices of brands and colors, but halfway down the first aisle he's puzzling over each decision with his brow furrowed and a constipated look on his face.

In an effort to keep this whole experience to under an hour, I begin just shoving things in the cart that I know he'll need. After all, I'm the expert here; I wouldn't expect him to ask me to aid him in a diagnosis.

To make my commandeering of the selections less obvious I attempt to engage the good doctor in conversation.

"I'm a little surprised by your reaction to a bruised jaw if you're a doctor. This should be nothing to you," I gesture to my face. "Don't you deal with this stuff all the time?"

"Plastic surgery was my focus, so I'm used to more controlled intentional injuries. Taking over the Emergency department here in Forks has renewed my reaction to baser orthodox medicine. " He explains while lining the boxes inside the cart into neat groupings by size.

"Ah, plastic surgery. How did your wife feel about you working with boobs all the time?" As soon as it comes out I recognize it as the verbal diarrhea that it is, but really how could I not ask.

Carlisle's blush suffuses his cheeks with color, he pulls his hand through his hair again and starts poking around the lanterns and waterproof matches I've placed in the cart, alerting me that I've made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry, my mouth gets me in trouble sometimes. I didn't mean to be inappropriate or offend you," I mutter.

"It's okay, honesty is refreshing. My wife didn't exactly appreciate my workaholic nature, but I couldn't say if the breast augmentation work bothered her." His brows furrow again and he pauses, contemplating the question. "I never really thought to ask her that. Do you think it would bother most women?"

Having Carlisle be so transparent with me when I'm just a cashier he met at an outdoorsman store is bewildering. If he opens up to someone as random as me, I wonder how few people he has in his life.

"I don't know if I'm the best girl to answer that. I would have to reference the fact that the female species is prone to irrational jealousy and leave it at that."

The conversation stalls as I add campfire cookware and a cooler to the cart.

Deciding to stick with medicine as a topic to avoid any personal information, I enquire, "Why switch to emergency medicine? Why not family practice?"

"I worked in family medicine for a few years in the beginning. Just not a good fit for me. It makes me see every interaction as a doctor-patient situation. I would start questioning waitresses about the shape of their moles at a restaurant, or asking mechanics about their iron intake if they looked too pale. I couldn't shut work out of my brain. Pretty soon everyone had cancer."

I try to imagine picturing the world this way as I add four cold weather sleeping bags to the cart. It leaves me with an empty feeling. I wouldn't want to see everyone as problems to diagnose; it is hard to see how you could stay connected to anyone.

"Plus, there's only so many polite ways to tell obese people to get off the couch and loose weight." Carlisle sighs and adds a sun tea maker to the jumbled overflowing cart.

Four cartloads and two productive hours later, the open conversation has flowed while we prepared for the camping trip of a lifetime. Somehow Carlisle and I fell into a bubble of sincere conversation about his life issues. It has been cathartic to contemplate the problems of someone else. Carlisle's mess of family complications offers me a respite from my own ever-present troubles.

I now know that Carlisle is attempting a grand gesture for his wife and kids in an attempt to put them back on the course to familial bliss. His workaholic ways and fucked up priorities led them all on a path to dysfunction which he's trying desperately to reverse. The method he's choosing to tackle this problem is camping, lots and lots of camping trips with just the four of them.

Maybe if you hit your midlife crisis and you already have the fast shiny sports car, the beautiful wife, and the piles of money, it expresses itself in a different way. Maybe camping will be Carlisle's route to mid life enlightenment.

As uncommon as it is, Carlisle actually wants to work at all of it instead of throwing it away. I remain cautiously optimistic for him.

When I finish bagging we somehow manage to cram everything in the back of his black Mercedes. He's pretty much set to live alfresco permanently when he leaves the world of Newton's behind.

Maybe the whole concept of sharing your burdens actually does mean something.

* * *

**A/N **

**Leave me some thoughts.**

**What is your worst hangover side effect?**


	4. Chp 3: Tidal Wave of an Inverted World

**Chapter 3: Tidal Wave of an Inverted World**

* * *

Jasper's shift ends in forty five minutes, and the walk from Newton's to the J&P grocery store only takes me fifteen. I try to prolong it for as long as possible, because I always hate when I get there early and have to wait outside for Jasper to claim me like a lost puppy.

Before leaving Newton's I take off my shoes and socks and wiggle my toes until the worst of the lint falls away. It's rare that we have dry ground in Forks, and the unusual condition fills me with the need to feel the warm asphalt beneath my feet.

I try to kill time by appreciating nature in all its northwestern glory while pulling a cigarette to my lips. This just turns into me standing on my tip toes as I circumvent a path around the garbage along the roadside. I can't help but imagine the journey of the random refuse and its trip from production to destruction. The trees and bird chirps pass unnoticed while I focus on litter.

The beer bottles and papers strewn about I can understand, but it's the random medley of unclaimed clothes and children's toys tumbling from a bag along the curb that leaves me with no explanation. It seems strange that someone could leave just one shoe along the roadside abandoned. On this day the array has become to my eyes a three dimensional social commentary of our waste fueled culture.

Despite my aimless meandering with rubbish I still arrive early. Instead of staking claim on my usual seat on the bench, I stow my shoes and make use of the automatic door to navigate the aisles is search of my goal. Hopefully no one will notice my dirty footprints on the orange linoleum.

Peering down all the aisles, I manage to track him down in the frozen foods section. His IPod earbuds trail from his back pocket up to hide beneath his unkempt tawny locks, and he's holding boxes of frozen hamburgers in each hand while his head moves to his own rhythm.

This scene, while innocent to the untrained Jasper-ignorant eye, can only mean one thing. Pure evil is on display before me. That head bob is signature for Jasper developing his secret machinations.

Jasper likes to open the Boca Veggie burgers and the Bubba all beef burgers and switch the two. He gets a kick out of the fact that no one seems to notice they eat the wrong product.

In fact, among the small vegetarian population of Forks and surrounding communities, J&P is the favorite place to shop for veggie burgers. People will cross three towns to get them. Because really, every human is a sucker for the taste of meat, even if we like to tell ourselves otherwise and pretend we're above our baser instincts.

Also, the newly beef free Bubba all beef burgers keep flying off the shelf as well. Do we even know what we really put in our mouths anymore?

This substitution also happens with organic produce and regular produce, diet labels and 0 trans fat labels are added to full fat products. Jasper has even gone so far as to replace bottled spring water with tap water, though it's tricky to get the seals on and off again without evidence of tampering. Luckily, he stays clear of anything to do with sugar. Inducing someone into a diabetic coma is not in the plans.

This is Jasper's mini rebellion against the world. He wants people to think about labels and question more; he uses groceries as his medium to do this. One day he'll just announce this clandestine behavior to the management and quit. At least, that's the plan he claims.

_Pretentious_ isn't the right word, but it is the first word that comes to mind.

I saunter over to him and rip out the right earbud, "Still trying to expand the minds of Forks' vegetarians?"

"You know it." He smirks, picks out another box of Boca from the freezer case and hands it to me. I immediately put the frozen gift up to my lip, a hiss escaping when the chill touches my sensitive skin.

"Don't get blood on that or you'll have to pay for it," Jasper warns me sternly.

This is a ridiculous threat because we steal from the J&P on a regular basis. The price of this one box of burgers, the contents of which could be either meat or veggie at this point, would account for less then one percent of the total cost of our plunder. Cans of soda, ice cream sandwiches, and bagels have a habit of making their way into our clothes. Pretty much anything pocket sized is in danger of pilfering. Jasper himself has been known to clear the J&P of microwaveable popcorn by the boxful.

Instead of setting a spark to ignite his rationalizations of conditional theft, I ignore his admonition and slide down to sit on the floor with my back against the cool freezer door.

"I need a cheeseburger and french-fries as soon as possible if I'm going to salvage any part of this day." My body is very angry with me; the gurgles and burbles from within my tummy demand a coat of grease to settle their ramblings.

"Yeah, it sounds like you have a dragon trapped in there." He leans down and gives my belly a poke.

"Hmm, I seem to recall the last time you were hung over I kindly cleaned up your vomit soaked sheets with little complaint."

"Point taken. No more stomach prodding." Jasper holds his hand up to give me scout's honor. "Although, I could bring up the puking in my car incident, but I'm above it so I won't. How was your shift at Newton's? Any exciting rendezvous with dirty fishermen?"

For some reason, the bulk of my male attention comes from old filthy men buying bait. I'll never understand how beer guts and dirty fingernails can translate into irrational confidence to hit on teenage girls. All I know is counting out the correct number of worms into a plastic container when creepers are ogling your breasts is extremely difficult.

Jasper loves to make reference to my secret fan club.

"No, I managed to avoid any regulars today. I just spent the morning supplying new resident Dr. Carlisle Cullen with enough camping equipment to start his own off the grid tent city."

His eyebrows rise, "So you met Edward and Alice's dad then."

"Whose dad?" I cock my head and raise my eyebrow to match.

"Edward, the guy who punched you in the face yesterday while trying to protect Alice, his sister, from Mike."

I must be giving my I-have-no-clue face because he adds, "I guess you passed out before the introductions."

I crinkle my nose in disgust as I question, "Did Mike show her the linen closet of doom?"

In the modest three bedroom home of Mike Newton, there is a hall closet tucked between his bedroom and the bathroom. The only reason I am aware of this closet's existence is because it is somewhat infamous in Forks High lore. Apparently, this closet has been host to many rounds of teenage lecherous depravity.

Rosalie has sworn to me that Mike tried to lure her into the closet of doom by offering to show her his Pound Puppy sheets. Manipulating the nostalgia invoked from Pound Puppies in an attempt to steal a few boob grabs is unforgivable in my eyes; some things are just sacred. Needless to say, she kneed him in the crotch.

Jasper's face turns serious, and his whole countenance darkens. "If he would've laid one finger on her I would have killed him." His grip on the freezer door turns his knuckles white.

This protective streak is something I'm familiar with, but only when it pertains to me. Jasper usually only invokes his threats of violent retribution on my account. I'm taken aback by his tone; hearing it applied to a stranger confuses me.

Before I can question Jasper further, the loudspeaker crackles to interrupt us and Ben Cheney's voice breaks through the piped in top forties mix bullshit.

"Mr. Allen, please meet your wife at the deli counter."

Jasper hastily puts away the last box and closes the freezer door. Wiping his hands on his jeans to get rid of the frost, he then motions for me to return the aviators still perched on my face.

This announcement is code. The guys that work at the grocery store have a secret cryptic language worked out to send messages to one another on the loudspeaker. It is quite an elaborate system they developed to notify one another when a prime eye-catching woman enters the store.

They even have notes on what each person likes.

Ben, aka Mr. Miller, likes Asians and tall women.

Tyler, aka Mr. Stepford, likes curvy blondes with long hair.

Jasper, aka Mr. Allen, likes petite girls with exotic flair.

They assign titles of girlfriend, fiancé, and wife in ascending order to convey level of specification and beauty.

Despite the fact that I think this arrangement is ridiculous, I leave my questions for later and only roll my eyes once before handing over the sunglasses and fixing Jasper's disheveled hair. I mean, he may have strange methods to scout out women, but Jasper is still my boy no matter what and I want him to look his best if he's going to play the game.

"You have a little something on your cheek there." I rub at it with my thumb like he's a two year old toddler in my care. When I pull my hand back and smell it I realize it is a gob of guacamole, but I know better then to ask how it got on his face. There are some things better left as a mystery when it comes to the J&P.

"Sweet. Thanks, Bella, want to be my wingman?" He tilts his head to one side, opens his eyes wide and looks to me while his bottom lip protrudes. This is his attempt to win me over, but the persuasive tactic is unnecessary.

"If by wingman you mean delightful, lovely accomplice, then yes." I curtsy in the frozen food aisle.

"Bella, to me you are always lovely, but to strangers that birds nest happening on your head is a little off putting." Jasper reaches out and tries to smooth down the tornado that is my hair.

"So we'll play up the fact that you're sensitive enough to have ugly friends. I can probably drool a little so she'll think I'm slow." I shrug and hightail it towards the deli before he mentions my wrinkled khakis.

Of course, my skills at walking are seriously under par, so I take a drop before I reach my destination. I fall right on my ass, crack my head on the floor and skid into a display of coffee. The perfectly stacked bags tumble all over me, and I find myself buried in pouches of French Vanilla infused grounds.

If it was just me and the coffee, it really wouldn't be so bad. However, mid slide I manage to careen into a pair of legs and knock an unassuming grocery shopper down with me. We're a tangled mix of knees and elbows and no matter how hard I try I can't seem to roll away from this individual.

I struggle a little while longer and my attempt to break free is rewarded by the bursting of a coffee bag which sends scattered grounds across the orange linoleum.

There is no accurate way to describe my inelegance in this moment.

A few beats pass and we're still silent in awkward land, of which I am the mayor.

Finally Jasper comes to help us disentangle.

"Bella, your arm is through Alice's purse strap and your foot is stuck through the handles to her shopping basket. I don't think the position you have gotten your bodies into is even physically possible."

So, I managed to intertwine myself with Alice, the small statured creature with lustrous black hair responsible for the loudspeaker lingo. She is the embodiment of Mr. Allen's petite girl with exotic flair. Even thought my view of her is encumbered by our current situation I must admit she encompasses this description perfectly.

Once he threads my limbs free of their restraints, Jasper grabs my arm and hauls me up unceremoniously from the ground to plop me back on my feet. Then he extends his hand in offering to Alice, who accepts with her own small paw. Gently he reaches his other arm down to surround her as he delicately lifts her back to her feet in a full off the floor sweeping motion.

Returning the embrace, Alice brings up her arms to rest on Jasper's biceps, because with him towering over her she is unable to come anywhere near reaching behind his neck. She stares up at Jasper with awe, and he returns her gaze with a wide smile that rarely graces his lips.

He bends down and questions her in a whisper, "You alright?"

She blushes, and responds with an equally quiet, "Mmm hmm."

The aside feeling of their brief exchange sets me reeling. Jasper has broken from his traditional aloof technique. With this deviation from his method, I know he means to capture this woman. This is no game for him.

Despite the fact that we're in the middle of a very public place the look they share makes me feel like an awkward intruder on their very private moment. I take a few steps back, which really only makes me feel like more of a voyeur.

After a few moments, I resort to pushing around the spilled coffee beans with my still bare toes while I wait for this connection to break. Unease begins to tumble around within me and a heaviness settles into my chest.

At last, they remember me standing here, and Alice blushes as she breaks eye contact with Jasper and steps away.

She turns her smile to me and says, "Bella, I'm sorry! We haven't met officially yet. I'm Alice Cullen and it's so nice to meet you!"

There's a half dozen things to say on the tip of my tongue, and I run down the list to find something appropriate. _Thank God it wasn't canned coffee._ That's the best the gray matter jammed in my skull can come up with on the fly, so I just stand tongue tied like a moron.

Jasper grasps my shoulder and offers, "I promise she doesn't always look like a mental patient, I usually claim her in public."

I know that he means this to tease me and ease the tension of the uncomfortable situation I've gotten us into. However, for some reason, I'm incredibly annoyed with him and the doting looks that he sends Alice's way.

At this point, I just want everyone dead. I don't care about trying to be a wingman or any other shit. It is now one o'clock and my belly still is empty of the grease needed to dampen my nausea, and I just smacked my head against the orange linoleum of the J&P.

So, I smile sweetly, flip Jasper the bird and offer him a, "Fuck you."

Alice lets loose a giggle, and I turn to meet her amused gaze. She winks at me and rolls her eyes at Jasper, her posture shifts so that she engages me and shuts him out.

"Bella, I am so sorry about last night. My brother's protective streak usually does more harm than good, but punching a girl takes the cake even if it was accidental. I hope that you won't judge either of us from that one incident." She raises her hand to her forehead and shakes her head, sending her cropped locks reverberate to echo the movement. I have to replay her words in my mind because they came in such a quick burst of syllables, my coherency challenged.

I let loose a small sigh and try to reign in my rational mind so I can reply without being a bitch.

"Um, no need to be sorry. It was more me throwing my face into his fist than anything else. Plus, I know we're strangers, Alice, but if my punch to the face kept you out of the closet of doom I have no regrets."

"Oh Bella, I feel we won't be strangers for long. I am in your debt for the rescue. I feel incredibly naïve for not realizing what Mike's angle was when he mentioned Pound Puppies." She giggles again and begins to rock back and forth on her heels.

In an attempt to put the matter to rest, I stretch out my hand as an offering. Alice accepts and shakes it with exuberant bouncing. Her palm is cool, with tiny dainty fingers, and she shakes with confidence. My sweaty hand and guacamole smeared fingers make a sharp contrast. Grace and grime, meeting at the deli counter.

Somehow, Alice has calmed me a bit, as if her extra energy has the ability to burn off my irritation. This is a huge feat, because as a general rule I dislike people.

"Well, I'm thankful to know a few people before school on Monday. I really must be off, thank you again for last night." She spins on her toes and starts to skip away toward the check out, moving like a creature of the fey.

Her obvious sincerity is at war with my irrational desire to hate her. Her presence lingers between us even after she is no longer in view, and I am left speechless. Glancing at Jasper, I see that his sight is still set on the door she left through. I find myself wishing for his aviators, as if looking through the world with tinted lenses would detatch me from it.

Jasper is my one square inch of normal; the only fixated point in the tumultuous universe that surrounds me. Yet in the last few moments, I feel a shift in the world and I am left with a growing sense of dread in my belly.

How can I explain to her that her brother's bruises were nothing compared to the hell storm she could let loose by stealing my Jasper.

* * *

**A/N: What was your first job?**

**Also, the "Pretentious" line is a tribute to Chuck Palahniuk's style in Choke.**


	5. Chp 4: Envy of the Bees

**Chapter 4: The Envy of the Bees**

* * *

Blueberry yogurt slides unapologetically off my spoon and down to meet with its originating cup. Repeatedly I raise a spoonful high and relish the plop that rewards me when it returns to its vessel. Higher and higher I go until finally I miss, and the yogurt plops onto the table, splashing onto Jasper and I, missing its home.

"Really, Bella, really?" Jasper rolls his eyes, licks the artificially colored blue substance from his knuckles and forearm, and swipes my spoon.

This is exactly the reaction I intended. Jasper, for all his antics and spontaneity, does not enjoy poor table manners. He is a walking conundrum in his own right, a fabulous mix of pristine and polluted.

"Are we going to talk about why you're irrationally angry with me or are you just going to continue obstructionist tactics?"

I shrug and start pulling the creamy blue yogurt to my lips with two of my fingers, utilizing my ragged chewed nails to reach into the corners of the container.

He knows that something is bothering me, and he knows that I don't want to talk about it just yet. I've been avoiding him since our run in with Alice at the J&P Saturday afternoon. This seems like not such a hard thing, but it is rare that I go longer than twelve hours without Jasper. Making it all the way to Monday morning is an unparalleled occurrence.

"You woke me. I was tired, and wanted to sleep. You scooped me out of bed and threw me on the floor, and pulled my comforter from me. This is justifiable retribution." I fidget with my now empty yogurt cup, spinning it on the table till the label's words become indistinguishable as it turns.

"You're playing with your hands, that's one of your tells and you know it." Jasper tilts back in his chair smugly, crosses his arms and smirks.

I decide not to inform him that he missed a gob of offending yogurt on his cheek. After all, he obviously is all knowing this morning.

"I'm not ready to talk about what is bothering me, I haven't sorted through what is rational or not. However, I promise a resolution or at least a discussion by the end of the day." I offer, knowing that he worries when I keep my angst bottled up. I'm not quite sure if I really will be ready to talk about it, or if this is lip service to comfort him.

He lets out a breath I didn't realize he was holding. "Alright Swan, but I won't let this go."

I collect our cups and spoons, rinsing them with the tap as it sputters and struggles to bring adequate pressure to the task.

Yet another reminder that I really do live in a neglected shithole.

Jasper unfurls the obituary section of the paper. I watch as he lays it across the table, smoothing the edges out flat and pulling my chair over to his side.

We spend the rest of our morning staring at faces of dead people and making up grand stories of their lives.

_Chester Ambrose, born May 17, 1923. _

I weave a fanciful tail about Chester meeting his wife, Penelope, right before being drafted for World War II, and how he courted her through letters while overseas. Upon his return, he's lost his hearing in his right ear, but is otherwise intact. They elope, have ten kids (four of which are two sets of twins) and somehow still manage to travel the world so his wife can write novels inspired by places like Ireland and Jamaica. Chester writes nonfiction works on their destinations' natural flora and fauna.

In these life stories, the minuscule portion of my female mind that is ruled by romance and optimism is let loose and indulged. It seems okay to be hopeful in the world of my imagination when applied to dead strangers.

_Claire Dillman, born December 14, 1968._

Jasper spins Claire's life into a narrative worthy of screenplay. To him, she worked as an undercover police officer. Valiantly, she lost her life in a shoot out right after she took out the leader of the Slovakian mob in Seattle.

Jasper's life stories usually involve the cops and mafia in some capacity, making his tales predictable and gun related. I accept his lack of creativity in this venture, knowing that he finds it morbid, yet is willing to indulge my idiosyncrasies.

Half a dozen plot lines later and we're forced to depart and start our day.

The car seat freezes me, chilling through my jeans and announcing the impending change of season. And to think just two days ago I was enjoying the warmth on the asphalt on my toes.

* * *

Opening the window a crack more, I flip my cigarette away from me, watching it spark along the road behind us, giving a firework display to the ants. We pull into the parking lot of Forks High as the forlorn mood from my dreams overtakes me once again.

Here, I am treated as invisible. This both comforts and confounds.

To some, I am another alphabetically assigned parasite on the system. For most, in ten years when they remember me as I am now in high school, the thought of me will blend seamlessly with the barely recollected color of the lockers and the unidentifiable smell that pervades the gym. My name will be brought to mind only by a struggle to recall, a furrowed brow. I will be a mere aid to reconstructing an overall feeling of what high school was, if I come to mind at all. Even than, if I break the surface of their memory, the phrase _the crazy girl_ will be all that defines.

But for now, before the sands of time have the chance to wear away my memory, I am notorious. In a bigger town, I would not have retained my infamy for this long. The tragic happenings of my life would have shifted to the background long ago, to be overtaken by newer, shinier occurrences.

As it stands, I am a car wreck. Passersby crane their necks to take in the twisted metal and debris, monuments to the ruin I have made of myself. Few dare to approach the scene up close, unless they are vultures waiting for their chance to clean my bones.

People move to avoid touching me, even just a bump in passing in the hallway is evaded. Over a year has past, and still, they part like the red sea, fearing contagion. I don't think it's even a conscious decision on their part, more an innate reaction to avoid what they can not understand.

I make people uncomfortable, and choose to wield that fact as a shield rather than a self-destructing weapon.

At least on most days.

The melancholy tone of my thoughts as I kick at the layer of rust along the edge of my locker does not bode well for this day. Corrosion applies to both the ancient metal door and my patience for this phase of my life.

Oh God, let this constant discontent be a phase. Let me be an unchallenged mind that bursts and burgeons when I reach whatever the hell is looming on the horizon. Or else may I be met there by a cliff.

Whoever said 7:30 was too early for dramatics?

The embodiment of bottled tan and peroxide blond breaks into my reverie. The fates that placed Lauren Mallory's locker next to mine deserved to be cursed. She was the type of child to poke a dying animal with a stick, laying bare innards and freeing rivulets of blood from the carcass. Now, she is the type of teenager to apply the same practice to those she views as weak, while clutching a stylish handbag and donning authantic pearls.

I look at her and I think, I'd rather lead the life I have, full of regrets, full of mistakes and heartache, than walk in those obnoxious high heels one day and see the world as she does.

"Someone finally get sick of your smart mouth, Swan?" I had almost forgotten my bruised mouth, too rushed by Jasper's tornado like wake up call to look in the mirror. The obvious snide tone that accompanies the comment does not offend me as much as disappoint. It sounds rehearsed.

In all aspects, Lauren is contrived. For once I would like to be harassed with originality.

"Lauren, is your left eye a little droopier than your right? I think that may be a sign of rapidly spreading gonorrhea. You should get yourself checked."

She scoffs and stutters, drawing her fingers up to stretch the alleged droop. I smile, knowing that this one seed of doubt will have her mind racing all day. Really, it is too easy at this point. I am the envy of the bees, able to sting with a turn of phrase time and time again if I choose, without fear of facing my own demise. Lauren's words, even if eloquent in their attempts to ruin, would still roll off my marble skin.

You can't offend someone who has already killed so much of themselves.

And so we play out another installment of the Lauren hates Bella saga, more indifferent than enraged by one another at this point. Yet there is something to be said of routine and tradition in social encounters.

"Don't forget, next time; wrap it before you tap it." I can't even put the vindictive feeling behind the statement that I know I should.

* * *

It occurs to me in third period Geography that the only reason I need any of this knowledge is incase I end up on a game show. That's all an American education is good for anymore, especially when one does not have goals. Why else would I need to be able to map the river basins of North Carolina?

I have given much thought, while perching in a plastic chair leaning on a veneered wooden desk, over the ways I would use the facts, figures, and data I am amassing during my time here. As one who has no plans for college or even a career, no plans at all really, the information I have gleamed from my teachers could only find purpose in a scenario where the regurgitation of trivia is required.

Now that I've reached the milestone that is junior year, I am subjected to constant reminders that I need to think of the future. Where do I want to apply for college, where do I see myself in the next few years, what do I want to achieve. Those who fail to plan, plan to fail.

The future hangs over me as a threat, rather than a promise; a ticking clock counting down to some unknown doomsday scenario labeled as the "real world".

I'm pretty sure you can't go bare foot in the _real world_ which means I have no place and want no part of it.

A chicken salad sandwich cut in quarters, an apple, Twizzlers, and an iced tea are waiting forlornly at our empty lunch table when I arrive.

They are trademark paraphernalia from Emmett, and make up the lunch he eats every single school day without exception. Even when we have hot open faced turkey sandwiches the week of thanksgiving, or apple pie near Christmas break, or when the delicious taco day makes a rare appearance, still Emmett eats his chicken salad, apple, Twizzlers and iced tea.

Even in his meal preference, he is nothing if not loyally consistent.

Scanning the room, I spy Rosalie pressed against Emmett in the lunch line, their frames melded to one another at various points. Where Rosalie is by body soft curves and by behavior formidably fierce, Emmett is cut muscle and brawn wrapping a jovial disposition. Diametrically opposed with their ins and outs, they blend into a beautiful balance.

Choosing to forgo the offerings of square pizza and ham surprise, I remove my shoes and tuck my legs beneath me as I wait. Typically I am of the opinion that a well lunched tummy is the key to happiness, but this day my appetite has escaped me. Tracing patterns, I connect the nicks and scratches on the well worn table, creating forms and figures with my minds eye view beneath my fingertips.

I just finish adding the last spikes on my imaginary succulent when I am joined by the pair.

"So I hear you're extra despondent today. What's that about?" Where others would hesitate to blurt, Rosalie is straightforward. She is teaching me the value of tactlessness.

"Rough weekend?" I offer the excuse, recognizing it as lame while it comes out, yet unwilling to delve deeper into the cause of my mood.

She lets the poor justification pass, and looks past me to the entrance of the cafeteria.

I turn my head to follow her line of sight, to find Jasper square in my face, almost bumping my nose with his own.

"Shit!" I squeak, startled by his appearance.

"You not eating?" The question more threat than inquiry. I would be pissed if concern wasn't etched in the lines of his face. Guilt creeps in.

"No, Mr. Nutritionist, and last time I checked anorexia nervosa is not included in my plethora of life issues."

"I see." He refrains from pushing the issue, and slides a chocolate pudding cup and a single use packet of peanut butter in front of me on the table.

He means to win me over with favorites.

"Thanks." He wins a smile from my lips for his effort, and I grab a spoon from Rosalie's tray to partake. My desire for nourishment is rekindled now that my calm is present by my side in Jasper. Always, he is able to soothe, even when I am not forthcoming with the problem.

I turn my attention Jasper's way, preparing to launch into a more detailed account over my Friday meeting with the trinity powers that be: Mr. Banner, Mr. Greene and Charlie.

"My new plan is to do my next piece in art class with only shades of red paint and a putty knife, don't you think that meeting will warrant a complete formation of the gulch in Charlie's left-"

I stop short when I realize he's not even listening. I see Jasper's eyes glaze over and watch him shift in his seat to look past me.

"Jasper?"

I sit while the one who I thought would always _see _me, looks past to the novel offering brought forth in a diminutive stature wrapped in a gray sweater dress and heels. Alice, has arrived.

"Bella, I'll be right back." Jasper gets up from the table, and to anyone else he would pull off the nonchalant stride he's going for, but I can see the giddiness in his step as he approaches the raven haired imp.

Suddenly, the monster that has been crushing me the last few days has a big green ugly name. Clarity comes, and I am able to identify my own irritation.

_Jealousy._

* * *

I approach the Biology classroom ill at ease, already dreading the review of the dissection from Friday that occurred sans Bella.

Outdated interactive software at the library can only cover so much, especially when the user is lacking even a morsel of motivation. To agitated and anxious to focus, Sunday was pretty much a wash, taken over by this one attempt at an academically minded outing and then an extra dose of Nyquil to obtain the heavy escape of sleep. I had sprawled in my bed, wrapped up in blankets and pillows empty of comfort in a pool of self pity and self hatred. I stayed in my commiserations until the day had died.

Halting, I realize just a step away my typically solo lab station is occupied. By Edward. I suck in a small breath at the sight of him, unable to stop my body's natural response to my striking burning man, donning yet another black t shirt and jeans. Leaning on the back two legs of his stool, his arms are crossed as he watches my approach. Daggers are shooting from his eyes to my face, and as if they were physically tangible and held bodily threat, I retreat a step.

It is almost comical, and maybe if I wasn't already rubbed raw from lunch I would be able to disregard his barely veiled hostility. After all, it's not like he's threatening me with harm, he's merely sending a disgruntled look my way.

Above us the fluorescent light flickers, casting its unsteady shine across Edward's scowling face.

_I will not be moved and intimidated by a sour expression._

Defiantly, I take my seat, sprawling my bag and notebook obnoxiously across the surface that he has failed to utilize.

We sit, still as steel and stone while the class assembles.

The review sheet is passed out. Silently we sit. My fingers curl into my palms, leaving half moon indentations in their wake.

Like an unwelcome intruder on our soundless scene, the whispers of conversation invade the desks around us.

Silently we sit, and still he glares. The hair on the back of my neck stands and my body sends me into either fight or flight mode. It is still unclear which; my racing pulse and tense muscles could be a part of either outcome. Unbidden adrenaline flows.

I am undone, unraveled, and unwilling to stay quiet and be socially appropriate. Stripped to my bare bones, this boy has slipped beneath my detached nature and elicits a response.

I'm sick of pretending everything is okay, and I have learned it is better to spit out the poison rather than swallow it down silently and allow it to slowly consume me. I can not survive liberation through my veins again as means to drive out the toxin; delivering the release through my mouth verbally serves my body better.

This truth I have learned, better late than never.

My pendulum is swinging to the converse extreme, so out it tumbles, "What the fuck is your problem?"

Through clenched teeth and tense cheeks it squeaks, to quick to submit to my control and revision. Perhaps being so accusatory is not the best approach, but after all, I am _unraveled_.

His silent hatred has stripped me down to pure reaction, rather than the calculated response that I prefer.

Still he says nothing.

When I met him he was aflame, his carnal nature tapped to preserve his kin. Now I replace him on my self created emotional pyre, burning from his lack of words and ability to unwind me with a mere vicious look.

I have suffered worse things than passive aggressive gazing. The irrational rise of my emotional tide over such a triviality is its own punishment, knocking my pride down a peg or two.

His eyes widen and darken; the only outward sign of his emotional state. He shrugs his shoulders, the motion barely detectable to anyone not absorbing his every move. As if to add a casual air to his obvious contempt, he begins to inspect the grit and grime beneath the nails of his long fingers.

I want to suck the dirt off with my tongue.

This is perhaps the most degrading reaction thus far. I suck in a shocked breath, and he turns to meet my gaze.

In this new life, this after life that I have created, I am exposed. As if I pulled away my skin, my muscles, my tendons, my corium, and am left with only nerve endings. Bare and vulnerable, everything is magnified.

I fight to maintain my restraint, to make my irrational automatic reactions submit. And yet, this one interaction cracks this carefully crafted control, releasing chaos over command.

My vulnerability is no match for his barricade.

The second hand strikes its destination, and I spring to my feet before the bell even tolls. I grab my belongings in one sweep of the table and fly out of the room, moving with surprising coordination in my haste to get _away_. Releasing us from the loudest silent exchange I have ever encountered.

* * *

Jasper is waiting by my locker to accompany me to the gym. At this point, I know that any attempt to remain in this place is futile. I clutch his hand and pull him away.

"We're done. I'm done. This day is done." I state resolutely.

Jasper makes no attempt to chide me or goad me into finishing the day. My frame of mind must be clear, the tempest within speaking for me as I pull him with me in my need to get _away_.

We reach the Vega and Jasper finally , "You are a fire cracker today my Isabellarina. What happened?"

I don't even know what to say, I'm teeming with emotion, nimbostratus clouds tumbling within.

My tumultuous encounter has drudged up the dregs of what is really on my mind, my true concerns that have has been pulling on my head and heart since the deli counter.

"What if-"

"Jasper, you are my best friend and I-"

"I just don't want to miss out on-"

This inquiry won't roll off my tongue as eloquently as I would like.

My head is screaming.

_What if you are to be the fixed point around which I rotate all of my days? What if our magic could carry us into another kind of love? What if we miss all that because I'm too afraid to just-_

Words are not enough to explain and express. So, I must act.

I grab hold of Jasper's immaculate t-shirt and pull him towards me, rocking up onto the balls of my feet to gain the extra inches necessary to reach my ultimate goal.

I watch Jasper's eyes widen at my approach, the realization of my intent crosses his face. He brings his arms to enclose me and I run my tongue across my lips before melding them to his.

We tilt our heads accordingly, moving our mouths as carnal nature dictates. Jasper draws me closer and pulls me off my feet clutching me to him as he runs his fingers under the back of my shirt and caresses my lower back.

_But I am not satiated. _

* * *

**A/N: ****What is your favorite creative wording to encourage condom usage?**


	6. Chp 5: The Lion and the Teacup

**Chp. 5: The Lion and the Teacup**

* * *

"Damn it!!" The exclamation burst forth as soon as we part. I'm catching my breath as I straighten my shirt, running my sweaty palms over the fabric.

Jasper chuckles and tucks the locks of hair behind my ear that escaped. Laughter is a good sign, knowing my outburst was not misconstrued as offensive calms me a bit.

We climb in the Vega, Jasper making his way to leave me at my house before his short shift at the J&P. The ride is silent and reflective. Jasper refrains from even clicking on the radio to accompany our contemplations.

"Alright, let's hear it." He prompts when he pulls into my empty driveway.

"The mechanics of it were appealing. Our technique is beyond reproach." I offer.

He smirks. "I really liked that rolling thing you did with your tongue."

"Thanks, the lip nibbling is good by the way." I run my tongue against my swollen lip, thankful that he was gentle with the split.

"Unfortunately, my Isabellarina there is more to this whole thing than those details." Jasper pulls me into an awkward hug across the console.

Now, after my urge has passed and my lips have been claimed, I feel silly.

He taps his fingers against the cracked steering wheel, a serious face overtaking his features.

"Bella, I think it's perfectly normal that we would want to try this, to see if we could stretch it and mold it to something more. I'm actually surprised our inter-reliant tendencies didn't lead us down this road sooner."

"I just wanted this for us. I realized that I'm jealous of the way you look at the new girl, and I don't want to lose this."

"We will not lose each other, we're solid. But this isn't us; we don't bring each other to boil in adoration or in anger with a passion that is meant for this sort of thing."

I know this is truth. Jasper can't stand my dirty feet when I go without shoes, he believes in ghosts, he doesn't like horror movies, and he doesn't put his cups in the dishwasher after use. All of these are deal breakers for me on a relationship level.

And besides standing over five feet, I never wear heels, I curse like a sailor when the occasion is right, I cross my fingers to rationalize lying, and I smoke. All of these are deal breakers for Jasper.

"But, if I'm always here, driving you to school, skipping class with you, letting you cook for me, all of these things we do for each other; if it's always me, no other guy will get the chance." He doesn't add that he won't be free to drive anyone else to school while he's busy here, but he doesn't need to.

I picture Alice, exotic petite Alice, with her dainty body and tangible optimism. My antonym if we were to be categorized with words. The teacup to my beer mug.

"I'm ready for you to have your teacup."

He chuckles, "I have no idea if she'll even be had."

"How long will things be weird with us now?" I wonder.

Jasper sighs, "I'd say we're looking at a two week recovery time till things are back to normal."

Even though Jasper is the peanut butter to my jelly, we're not impervious to awkwardness derived from a lip lock.

"Okay. See you at Rosalie's; I'm making stuffed chicken with plum glaze." With this, I escape through the car door and into the house, confident that Jasper will not skip our weekly group dinner because of this.

* * *

The kitchen is waiting for me, untouched from this morning, and I try to remember the last time I saw evidence that Charlie had been here. No remembrance comes to mind, between his irregular shifts at the station, my lack of coming home habits, and our general avoidance of one another, it has been over a week since I saw him in the house. Apparently our interactions are confined to the principal's office.

I find myself leaving small messes behind me when I'm at Charlie's house. I wash all the dirty dishes in the kitchen, yet I leave one crusty fork sitting on the counter next to the sink. I leave a pair of my socks on the living room floor. I leave the toothpaste cap off and with a path of blue and white gel trailing across the lip of the sink. All of this is on purpose. Purposely, I leave markings and traces of simple routines around the house.

This is not to invoke a sense of ownership or marking of territory. These serve as a reminder that time is passing in this place. When I see the souvenir of a previous trip to the kitchen sink, I am assured that I have made it through a day since I last looked at that fork. It has been six hours since I left those socks by the sofa. When everything is in its assigned place it becomes indistinguishable from one day to the next, as if I could endure hundreds of hours under this roof only to discover it has passed only one day. If time is relative, moving and flowing based on our experience of it, Charlie's house falls into the stuck end of the spectrum.

I stopped sleeping here most nights. I was becoming numb, and when the growth of your fingernails becomes an important way of marking time, you start to worry for your sanity.

Quickly, I assemble a few needed things, leaving the heavy emptiness of the house behind me when I slam the screen door and start the trek to my next destination.

* * *

I'm standing outside the front door to Rosalie's house, the homiest house I've ever been in. Familial love is just oozing out of it, seeping through the walls and studs and mortar of the place to penetrate me, almost tangible in its presence.

Most likely this is because the house is full of her million brothers and sisters. The Hales don't exactly believe in birth control; Rosalie is the oldest of eight and there is another on the way. Another contributing factor to the atmosphere is the fact that her parents are actually in a functioning marriage. They even say, "I love you," to one another and kiss cheeks before they part. If I hadn't seen it myself I would assume that such gestures had died out in the eighties.

Currently I'm standing on the front stoop, trying to avoid entering the house until Rosalie's family departs for their Monday night prayer service at the church. Tiny Billy is tugging on my pant leg with surprising force, successfully shifting the gelatinous green goo covering his palms onto my once clean denim. Really, his name probably isn't Billy. I assign this designation to any male that stands under waist height.

The slimy secretion is unidentifiable, most likely ascribed to the jelly family. At least, I hope it's some for of jelly rather than mucus. Phlegm and bodily discharges make it high on the list of things I just can't handle, no matter how cute the innocent eyed look that accompanies it is.

"Billy, really is that necessary?" I try to tilt my voice higher like I've heard Rosalie do when she speaks to her younger siblings, but the effect is more shrill than soothing.

"My name is Ryan. I'm this many." Billy holds up three fingers to display pride at the accomplishment of surviving three years.

"That's nice, now really, Billy, no touching."

"You know, you're pretty much horrible with children." Rosalie calls from behind the garage door to my left.

I follow her voice into the Serial Killer Garage, aptly named for the dark unidentifiable stain on the cement floor we discovered last summer. Rosalie pulls up the door, revealing row after row of brown cardboard boxes, all clearly labeled in her flawless script.

This is Rosalie's hope for the future, boxed and categorized in her parents' garage.

It's startling, the sheer amount of possessions contained in here. As one who leads a mobile existence, my few belongings scattered among the various venues I frequent, the amount of _things_ Rosalie calls hers is overwhelming.

She leads me down the third aisle and stops to count up to the third box off the ground; passing over _Serving Utensils, Small Appliances, _and _Unique Wine Glasses_ to end on _Miscellaneous Kitchen Décor. _There are tiny hearts dotting the "i's" which would be obnoxious coming from anyone who couldn't kick my ass. Rose wraps a set of wooden salt and pepper shakers in tissue paper, and then places the bundle carefully into the box.

Where my feminine penchant for romance makes only brief appearances in front of the obits, Rosalie keeps her romantically idealistic tendencies locked in the garage. It is rare that she shows this side of herself anywhere other than enclosed in these cement brick walls.

All of these things, these predestined belongings, are found treasures. Rosalie is the queen of the rummage sales. Sorting through the brick-a-brack and hodgepodge, she pulls forth things of beauty and stows them here, where they wait for their début in her next life.

When Rosalie and Emmett escape this place, they will be able to move into an apartment fully furnished with Rose's hope.

Rosalie shows me her newest finds, pulling them out one by one from the correlating container so I can ooh and aah over plates, pillows, and knickknacks of various sorts. Her doting over coasters seems a contrast to her hard as nails disposition, but I am learning to align all these pieces that make up Rosalie to form a more accurate view of her in my mind. First impressions are not always reliable.

The whole set up would be easy to mock and undermine, the way she stores this stuff. But, this is all a symbol of her acceptance of me, that she lets me see this sacred collection. I may not find house wares enthralling, but I know that acknowledging and affirming her vulnerability on display is important. We don't speak of this outside of these cement walls.

This is our truce of sorts; Rosalie shares her weaknesses and vulnerabilities so that I may share mine.

"Byes!" Her mother calls out from the driveway, face reddened and forehead sweaty from the task of buckling and arranging the horde now contained in the minivan. Now they are ready to depart for their soccer practice, ballet, music lessons, and whatever other activities are deemed necessary for happy childhoods and grooming for the future.

The Hales are social creatures, calendars booked to capacity. Typical of the American family really, so busy and scheduled that you don't have to think about anything except what's happening right in front of you. It seems exhausting, seeking fulfillment through a full agenda.

We safely enter the now emptied house and I make a quick trip into the fridge to flip the already marinating chicken I've brought with me.

"Are we still going with our plan for Emmett's birthday?" I call into the living room.

"Absolutely, and I better win best girlfriend of the millennium for it."

"Alright, I'll pick up my part of the gift this week. Do you want Jasper in the loop?"

"Hmm, yes. I think it will be an awkward experience unless he is forewarned."

"Rose, I'm pretty sure we have all the ingredients for an awkward time no matter who knows in advance."

Then, we assemble in the living room. Rosalie tucked on an ancient love seat with a faded green pattern, its worn appearance leaning toward well loved rather than shotty. I sit at her feet, and bring my hair over my shoulders to give Rosalie access to our routine.

Slowly, Rose traces calming circles on my back and neck, looping her fingertips in circuit to outline my spine, my neck, my scalp, my arms, and back around to the onset point. Her touch is grounding, and I close my eyes to bring the sensation more into focus. She hums a little and I click the television on mute as scenes from _Leave it to Beaver_ play across the screen.

Our soft atmosphere pervades the room, and I am still.

This physical contact is purposeful. Jasper read a book about neglected children who grow up without hugs and immediately asked Rosalie to start touching me more. Being the only female I had any sort of relationship with, he saw her as the only appropriate candidate. At first, this was extremely embarrassing and awkward. The whole thing made me feel broken, stupid and small. I tried to protest, claiming I had already missed that window of influence once I hit the age of thirteen, but Jasper was persistent.

Now, however, I am thankful that my pride was crushed long ago so that I might enjoy this luxury. Rosalie, at her young age, already has the hands of a mother.

You don't realize how much you missed out on human contact until you get it on a consistent basis.

"So, you should probably know that I invited two more people to dinner." She whispers the confession, but still it snaps me from my trance.

Rosalie must feel the tension creep into my muscles because she switches from tracing light concentric circles with her nails to deep kneading across my shoulders. In my minimalistic existence, there are few things I elevate to importance. These dinners are somewhat sacrosanct; inviting outsiders is not to be take lightly.

"Let me throw out a guess, the Cullens?" I pull myself off the floor, needing the movement to assist me as I release my irrational irritation.

_Leave it to Beaver_ is forgotten, and the encompassing blanket of detachment settles back over me.

Rosalie follows me into the kitchen and crosses her arms, leaning against the fridge while I start banging the pots and pans in the cupboard in search of a distraction.

"What's with you? You know there will be plenty of food." Her bitch persona is back on, wanting me to accept this with less whining and dramatics.

She is right; there will be plenty of portions, I always over cook to supply Jasper and Emmett with leftovers. At the moment though, that doesn't seem to be the point.

Her hands come down, and she takes a step closer. Trying to ease the sharp edge of her tone, she inquires, "Is this about the way Jasper looks at Alice?"

Her question catches me off guard, because that isn't what bothers me about our incoming guests. I'm dreading the awkward tension that I was forced to endure in Biology.

However, I don't want to talk about that with Rosalie or anyone for that matter. So, I decide to implement diversionary tactics and mislead her with something else entirely that also bares discussing.

"I kissed Jasper today."

Her eyes widen, and she moves forward to clutch my arms, pinning them to my side. "What!?" This touch isn't so much purposeful, more to encourage spillage.

"I don't think I can say it in plainer terms. I. Kissed. Jasper. On the mouth."

"How did you not tell me this as soon as you got here? How was it, what happened?"

"It was good. He tasted like a grape jolly rancher, which happens to be my favorite flavor. But…."

"Damn, I've been waiting for the two of you to come around for months! And now that you finally do there's a 'but'?"

Her confession of seeing this way before I did surprises me. "You expected this?"

"Bella, you sleep over at his house at least three times a week, you can finish each other's sentences, you cook him dinner and do his laundry, and you know his allergies for Christ's sake. Does this really need to be spelled out for you?"

Hmm. I guess to the outward eyes it would seem like Jasper and I were already heavily committed.

"But, it's not like that for us. We're just locked in a quasi-relationship because we're so codependent. No stomach clench, no racing heart, just mechanics."

"Well, at least you know now I guess." She releases me.

Before we can continue, the doorbell sends its chime into our midst. No one uses the doorbell in the Hale house; it's a coming and going sort of place open to the neighborhood. Well, no one except strangers I guess.

"Here we go." I mutter, and Rosalie leaves the room to answer the door.

I choose avoidance, hide in the kitchen, and begin mixing the stuffing for the chicken.

* * *

I'm leaning down to look in the oven, checking on the status of the temperature based on the inner thermometer we ghetto rigged when the dials broke. Suddenly, I feel a hand grab my arm and pull me back, nearly toppling me with its force. Before I know it, Edward Cullen is pulling me by the wrist to the sink, turning on the tap full strength and ducking my fingers under icy water.

In my confusion, it takes me a few seconds to realize that I've burned myself. My pinky and ring finger on my left hand are an angry red, blisters already forming under the flow of water. I must have leaned my hand on the stove burner when I was peeking into the oven. For anyone else, they would have realized instantly that the surface was too hot, but I have extensive nerve damage in my fingertips because of the severing of the blade I brought willfully to my body.

Embarrassment floods me as I realize this all happened in front of Edward. _When was the last time I even bothered feeling embarrassed?_

Carefully, he withdraws my fingers from the stream to inspect the burn, his brow furrowing in concentration as he holds my wrist tenderly.

His concern is genuine, and unexpected.

"Edward, why do you hate me so much?" I question. Not really my best opening, but the need to _understand_ covers all.

"I don't hate you, Bella. I hardly know you." He sighs and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. I recognize the mannerism and immediately connect it to Carlisle.

"Your mood swings like a pendulum." I murmur, and withdraw my hand from his. The Edward who wanted to murder me with his eyes in Biology and the Edward gently caring for me now are diametrically opposed and irreconcilable in my mind.

"I was just angry with the situation we were in. My first impression to this tiny god awful town is that I'm a woman beater."

Understanding blooms, he is worried for his emerging reputation.

"Do you know where the first aid kit is?" He pulls my arm closer, inspecting the damage once more. He smells earthy yet sweet, and I allow my mind to wander in speculation of the combination of this scent. _Tobacco and taffy? Maraschino cherries and sandalwood?_ It is undefinable.

"In the bathroom down the hall to the left." My graceless nature has ensured that I do in fact know where the first aid kit is in almost any home that I frequent. Jasper keeps one in his car specifically designated as mine which has been utilized on many occasions.

Instead of retrieving it and returning, Edward takes hold of my wrist and pulls me down the hallway with him. Carefully, he holds the injured fingers clear of any obstacle. The unnecessary touching makes me blush, his fingers encircling my wrist impacting deeper than Rosalie's concentric circles ever could.

We reach the obnoxiously pink tiled bathroom, and Edward releases me to dig around in the cabinet, searching for the first aid kit. It bothers me that I notice whether or not he's touching me at any given moment.

"Well, you have a myriad of options to deflect this."

"Hmm?" His tongue is sticking out just a little as he rubs Neosporin across my hand and starts to wrap the fingers in gauze.

"The beating women thing I mean. I will attempt to make it known that our collision was a result of my face forcing itself into your fist of its own accord. Or, I will hint that Mike used me as a human shield."

This at least elicits a smirk, and Edward temporarily looks up from his focused work to meet my eyes. His hair is riotous, spreading from his crown in disarray and leading me to question if products are involved in its placement or if natural oils provide its appearance. _Is he meticulous enough to craft the lion's mane, or is this earned from normal rambunctious living?_

"The one hurdle is that I don't really talk to people, but most likely they will just assume something dark and sinister on my part."

"You're talking to me." He's right, and it strikes me how easy this is. This mini conversation in the bathroom would seem like nothing to some, but I am a creature of few spoken words despite my inner ramblings.

"Really, you could tell people I like it rough and begged you to knock me around while in the throes of passion." I offer this as a joke, testing the waters to see how Edward will combat my banter.

The smile widens. "Did you just use the phrase 'throes of passion' to describe what happened to your face?"

Before I can reply with a quick turn of phrase meant to impress, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink.

I'm smiling. Not just an upturn of the mouth, an actual full smile, that reaches my eyes with the hint of a dimple on my right cheek that hasn't made an appearance in years.

I don't smile like this; I never show teeth without being conscious of the effort.

The expression jars me, knocking me free of being present in the moment. My reflection is a stranger.

I watch as my 180 degree counterpart's face loses its spark, cheeks and eyes returning to their familiar sullen expression.

"I need to check dinner. Thank you."

I pull away, Edward's touch now scorching more than the burn, the pleasant stolen moment ruined by the truth of what my reality is and the awareness that repartee with this cute boy is meant for someone more intact than me.

* * *

**A/N: ****What is your favorite dish to cook?**


	7. Chp 6: Dirt on Your New Shoes

**Chapter 6: Dirt on Your New Shoes**

I scrape my fork across my plate, eliciting a screech from the glass with the contact. Ignoring the collective shudder around the table, I focus on dividing my food into amassments of starch, protein, and potent vitamin A vegetable leaves.

My preference and nature is usually to mix my starch and veggies in a wonderful teamwork bite. However, this process of subdivision is crucial because the only place I feel comfortable looking at in this moment is my dish.

Forced conversation is not something I do well. Exchanging words out of obligation and social necessity leaves me strained. Actually, I don't do well with most types of conversation, having long since dismissed the drive to respond politely when someone speaks.

The normal casual solace of our group dinner has fled and left behind a strangely formal atmosphere. I feel stiff, as if no extremities are welcome on the table and proper posture is a must. I am fighting this by slouching in my chair and tapping a rhythm with my elbows.

I can taste my discomfort like its own seasoning in the plum glaze coating my stuffed chicken.

Emmett and Rosalie are making up our table's head and foot respectively. Jasper is to my left, so eye contact is unnecessary. This disconnect eases some of the tension from our earlier encounter.

Across from me blurs of bronze and flesh tones are present, Edward remains out of focus in my peripheral vision while I concentrate on the dramatics playing out between fork and plate.

His sister is seated on his side, across from Jasper, but doesn't yet make an appearance in my line of sight.

Maybe if I don't look up I won't have to interact.

Random groupings of syllables hit my ear drums, the sound of my name shocking me out of my focus on the categorized potatoes, notification of Alice wanting my attention. She must be nervous, because her words flutter forth like audible lightning. However, this is not enough to draw my gaze, let alone a response from my lips.

"Bella, what is your favorite thing about living in Forks?" She repeats, injecting enthusiasm into her dull conversation attempt.

I wonder if while I wasn't paying attention everyone else has shared their nugget of goodness.

The table is eerily quiet, and I should have responded by now, this being her second prompting. I run through some possible empty answers I could respond with:

_The only positive thing about Forks is that it's close to the La Push Reservation where I can purchase cheap cigarettes. _

_The best thing about Forks is I'm only tied here until I have a diploma in my hand. _

_The only perk about growing up in Forks is that once I get the hell out, anywhere I go will look better than this place._

However, more than wanting to voice any of those options I want to say nothing at all. This meaningless line of discussion is parading as a guise to get to know each other better and I want no part of it.

Jasper clears his throat noisily and mumbles, "Teacup," so that only I can hear. I refuse to be drawn in, maintaining a silent protest of our four-and-no-more spreading to six.

"_Bella-what-is-your-favorite-thing-about-living-in-Forks_?" This time her pitch is hitting the rafters.

I shove a giant bite of chicken into my mouth and set to work chewing. Jasper finds this unacceptable and curls two fingers to poke deep into my rib cage demanding a response. However, pseudo-Heimlich ensues, bringing forth my masticated bite rather than words. In slow motion poultry launches across the table and lands inches from Mr. Enchanting's hand.

My eyes follow the arc of the hunk of chicken, changing my field of reference to encapsulate only Edward's green irises.

"Slugs!" I blurt, more exclamation than answer.

"What?" He questions, a smile on his lips while Alice claims her tiny 'o' of shock.

"I like the slugs that come out in the spring and summer, covering any and all black top, leaving silver trails in their wake to mark their travels. They make a satisfying pop under your foot." I manage to shut my mouth, quieting the following thought that I don't feel bad when they squish between my toes because they are unavoidable in their sheer numbers.

The way the opinion tumbles out surprises me. Until pushed, I didn't think I had any thing that could be considered a genuine favorite about this place.

"Morbid much?" Emmett teases, but all I can see is the smirk across the table. He is scooping my bite subtly into his napkin; as if his sly cover up could make everyone forget I just spewed chicken.

As for Emmett, it's obvious I'm a bit morose; this confession should be no shocker.

"That's….interesting," Alice replies and I wonder how often I'll be able to make her, the embodiment of loquacity, search for words.

Even in my distraction, it doesn't escape my notice that no one mentions the chicken discharge, only reacting to the slug line that popped out. This makes me wonder when my life got to a place that such a thing as spewing food is accepted by my friends.

Awkward silence falls like a hammer on the table, making me wonder if now everyone feels the same way I have since the start of the meal.

In an attempt to recover, Rose offers her two cents, reparation for her responsibility in forming this uncomfortable grouping of people. "I have a favorite thing, Alice. I do hate the constant rain, but I love the noise it makes on the tin roof of Emmett's back porch. That's probably my favorite place in Forks."

At this her eyes glaze over, fond memories playing across the screen of her mind's eye. Emmett follows after her sentiment with a broad smile and wagging eyebrows. Subtlety is not his forte.

I know that the symphony of droplets is not the most exciting activity that goes on under the roof of the back porch at Emmett's. With Rose and Emmett, activities of the licentious variety take on more appeal in unexpected places.

Jasper and I won't sit on the porch swing anymore, or even the banister.

Her shared snippet serves as a transition of sorts, and the clatter of utensils and the sloshing of drinks brought to lips slowly returns.

Emmett cracks his knuckles and offers his attempt at conversation flow. "So, I heard that someone set Mike Newton's mailbox on fire."

Alice drops her fork and starts choking on her food. Before anyone else can react to her coughing, Jasper is in flight and around the table, kneeling by her side to pat her back and offer her water.

Their shared moment is tender, and I reclaim the voyeuristic feeling from the coffee covered J&P aisle. I feel detached, like I'm watching this mating dance play out on screen rather than starring my best friend as the leading role right across the table.

Seconds pass, and starry eyes are still being exchanged between the pair. This just makes me roll my eyes, but I notice that Edward is flexing his jaw more rapidly now. Whether the reaction is evoked by Jasper touching his sister, or Emmett's chosen topic is hard to say, but my curiosity is ablaze.

"I'm alright, it just went down the wrong way," Alice murmurs and blushes, patting Jasper's hand as he awkwardly crosses back to his chair.

Conversation continues with Edward changing the topic surreptitiously, yet I am able to discern the shift as purposeful. Still, I tune it out, choosing to focus on his mouth, the way the muscles ripple beneath the skin when he speaks, lips moving to show changing glimpses of his straight white teeth and tongue. I watch his jaw flex with the formation of his words even if I don't bother listening to what he's saying.

The laughing, the pull I feel to know him better, and the easy conversation in the bathroom, all of that makes me uncomfortable. Conversely, I can handle admiring his bone structure and rugged nature. Appreciating his looks is a safer allowance than wanting to appreciate his _everything_.

Also, I'm thinking whatever sparked the jaw flexing would have been a far more interesting topic than his thoughts on the weather patterns of the Pacific Northwest.

* * *

The interruption from the regular small town monotony caused by the Cullens' appearance in Forks is still stretching on. Rosalie's invitation to dinner on Monday somehow has morphed into an assumed inclusion to anything and everything involving our group of friends. I'm still processing how I feel about this shifting.

For the past few days, Alice has pranced along side me in the hallways at school. We have no classes together, yet she has an innate ability to pin point my exact whereabouts at any time through the day. Needless to say, as I round the corner out of the library I am not surprised when she falls into step beside me.

It's almost comical to think of the strange pair we make, we are a study in contrasts. Alice practically runs in place alongside me to maintain her energy output while I move sluggishly along, drawing out the time between classes as long as possible. I stare at the dirt on my sneakers, judging people around me based on the glimpses I get of their shoe choice while locked in my inner observations.

Spotless white sneakers say: _I want to appear up for anything, yet am bound by my meticulous perfectionist tendensies._

Converse say: _I am participating in a trend that tells me line by line how to think for myself and be original._

Heels say: _What you think about me is more important to than comfort._

All of these are the female choices. Boys' shoes tend not to say anything at all. I prefer to go barefoot and let the dirt between my toes speak of who I am and where I've been.

Alice sports a pair of leopard print Jimmy Choo heels, their designation only clear to me because of Rose's drooling description over lunch. She was able to name the brand and type from three tables over, which to me only shows they are in the vein of Rosalie's expensive taste. Up close, I can see that they are scuffed on all sides, and I wonder how much throwaway wealth one must have to scratch four hundred dollar shoes without concern. I can't decide what her shoes say about her beyond the typical heel sentiments I ascribe.

In the midst of this silent analysis, Alice prattles on at top speed. She speaks in a stream of consciousness, verbalizing every thought in contrast to my purposeful stoicism.

"…..should know that wearing hot pink and black together just looks dated you would think that…"

Mostly I insert, "Mmm hmm," at the right places and my mind moves on to ponder whether the tile in the gym locker room was made by children in a sweat shop. It has that distinct feeling to it; the blue glaze just screams 'made with illegal labor' to me for some reason.

Her company doesn't bother me; this fact in itself is strange enough to surprise me. In a way, I think we're both striving to achieve the same thing: avoidance of our peers. While I do this by choosing not to engage in any capacity, Alice's strategy is to push people away with a bubble of words about nothing.

"….but really she shouldn't be pairing those colors in a contrasting pattern, if they were in the same dichromatic scale that would be one thing but….."

Mindless fashion rules have been accosting my ears every trip between classes and my patience is running as thin as Lauren Mallory's chances of passing English. This, fashion, this is a topic I can not tolerate, even when running in background as white noise.

Annoyance at her chosen topic pushes me more than anything to speak.

"Alice," I interrupt, "Why are you talking to me? What is happening here exactly?" I point between the two of us to make clear what I mean by 'here'. I just need to know if this is some ploy for her to snag Jasper. I need her to come clean with her real motivation for trying to befriend the damaged girl and get her out of the way.

Alice stops her frenzied gait and looks me straight in the eye. "Today I realized that my Glade Plugin lasts longer than any of my previous friendships."

Her life assessment was far from what I was expecting to hear.

"I am ready to have genuine people in my life, Bella, and you seem like you are exactly who you are. I sense no false front or impure motivation when I talk to you. You don't seem like the type to use me for my money, or to use me to try and get closer to my attractive brother."

Guilt creeps under my skin, pointing out that I was judging her for these same vile motivations she wants to avoid in others.

"Okay."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?" Her eyebrow rises to an impossible height on her forehead in her uncertainty.

"Alice, you say enough for both of us. Just don't mistake my quiet as making me easy. I don't do this friendship thing halfway, and I am emotionally challenging. This has been made clear to me."

I feel like I should come with a warning label and maybe Alice too. Hers could read, _prattles about nothing, potentially addicted to uppers, yet strangely tolerable._ Mine could say, _gloomy and generally listless, but would help you hide a body in a pinch._ Maybe everyone should have one, so you can read and evaluate the pros and cons before jumping into a friendship. It seems like it would cut out a lot of relationship issues.

"That is definitely the most words I've heard come out of your mouth so far. Bella, I think I just might rub off on you!"

With this, she literally spins, balancing somehow on the heel of one stiletto and disappears into her classroom across the hall with a hop and a wave.

While what happened between the imp and I is still sinking in, I turn and enter the Biology room and prepare my mind for another few rounds at cracking Mr. Enigma.

For one class a day I sit less than an arms length apart from Edward. I notice the proximity, which is strange, and I find myself reminding my left arm to play dead and remain immobile so that I won't accidently stretch it out and make contact. For some reason, my body is not in line with my mind's decision to admire from afar. _Since when have I had an impulse to touch anyone?_

I watch his mannerism like they are a secret language in need of interpretation. The way he runs his hands through his hair when he's thinking, the way he mindlessly beats his pencil along our lab table with such force I can feel the vibrations in my elbows, the way he rolls his eyes when someone answers a question wrong; these are all twists on the decoder ring that unlock more of Edward Cullen.

I feel like he is always tapping his fingers against his lips or jaw, condensing his two best features in one small space that has the power to spark flame. I am beyond pretending I'm not attracted, feigning that I don't notice these things. While the crush is fun, it is foreign, and I wonder what implications I will face for letting my heart dream a little.

I want to put him in columns and rows, align him in some way that I can easily label him as data and understand. This I feel will help me maintain control and shake my infatuation with the mystery he brings.

I look at this man, --

But the term _man_ doesn't fit. _Man_ makes me think of beer bellies and gray hair and high socks. However he is no _boy_._Boy_ makes me think of gangly knees and elbows, body odor and belching. He fits in neither of these categories, existing in a state between the two. And I am held riveted by mere gestures and habits.

We murmur like strangers through the beginning of our weekly lab. As if he has never tasted my cooking, as if I don't have his jaw line memorized.

Mere conjecture over what makes him, _him_ is proving to be unfulfilling. So boldly I choose to attempt an ascent, to tackle the mountainous unknown.

"What is the thing you're scared of most?" I blurt between questions on diffusion and osmosis. Once again I land on the side of awkward conversation attempt rather than smooth topic introduction.

His brow furrows, he drops his pencil and sighs before speaking, "I don't know how to just be, to just fit where I belong and act accordingly."

"I wasn't really expecting that. I was expecting you to say something cliché like clowns, chainsaws, or snakes." I feel like I may have ruined his forthright response by admitting this.

He shrugs, "Oh. Well, in that line of thinking, I'm afraid of bedbugs."

"Bedbugs, really?"

He crosses his heart, to convey his sincerity. "I swear. I bring my own sheets with me anytime I go to a hotel, and when at someone's house I prefer to sleep on a couch."

I giggle, and this is quite possibly the first time a laugh of this nature has parted through these lips in longer than my memory can recall. _Since when do I giggle? _

"Now your turn, Bella. What are you afraid of?" He whispers it, leaving the query open to a light hearted answer or a reciprocation of the honesty he offered.

Softly I reply, "I'm afraid that at seventeen, I've already fucked things up beyond the point of restoration. Now I'm forced to craft a life out of what is left." Maybe in this back corner of the biology room I can chance being real and open, maybe I can match his willingness to be transparent.

I want to be honest with him, or I don't want to be anything to him at all.

He says nothing, pulling his green eyes from my own to break contact and look down to the lab sheet. I didn't realize how much I would miss the connection until it was revoked.

I immediately lament the vulnerability I have extended, but still cannot regret the choice to engage the mystery next to me in conversation.

In an attempt to salvage I present, "Also, I have a strange fear of umbrellas opening near my eyes. Even if someone is a few feet away, I am convinced somehow that my eyeball will be poked and I will be blinded."

Slowly at first a chuckle washes over him, it gains speed and becomes contagious, until the two of us are shaking in our seats with hands clasped against our mouths to hold the laughs at bay.

"Cullen and Swan, is there something humorous you've discovered about the lab you'd like to share with the class?"

I can't even offer a smartass response because I'm too busy laughing with Mr. Enigma.

* * *

On Saturday, I'm perched upon my stool behind the register at Newton's. My time is being filled by bringing my eyes in and out of focus while I look at the lit _'Newton's'_ sign to make the red and blue bulbs blur like fireworks across my vision.

This is what happens when I have completed my homework and still have an hour left to my shift.

The sound of screeching tires and the smell of burnt rubber waft through the propped front door and pull me from my revelry of exploding sight.

A beat up car has taken up two parking spots in the six spaced lot. An expensive ostentatious dented yellow Porsche, that is.

Before I can even disconnect my chin from my hand, Alice flutters out of the vehicle and into the store.

"Bella!" Her melodic voice lilts my name as she pulls me into a hug across the counter. I guess our earlier conversation about friendships and plugins has brought us to a hugging point.

"Alice, how did you know I worked here?"

"Oh, Edward mentioned it. I thought you might want some company to finish your shift."

"How did Edward know I work here?"

"My brother has a way of getting information on things that pique his interest."

"If he wanted everyone's work info, he could've just asked me in Bio." This makes me curious about what Alice and Edward must think of our various occupations. I'm sure Jasper's gig at the J&P, Rose's babysitting and Emmett's paper route must seem menial to people who drive expensive cars and have trust funds waiting for their outstretched hands on their twenty first birthdays.

Working and saving these miniscule minimum wage paychecks is what gives us a small chance to getting the hell out. We're all working to earn the right to dream. It's one of the few concrete things we can attempt while we're stuck in this in-the-mean-time existence. At least, this is the mantra Jasper repeats to me when I'm on the brink of quitting my shitty job. As to where I would go if I were free, I couldn't say.

Alice sends me a quizzical look before hopping onto the counter. Her tights have caught a run, and the hem of her pencil skirt is coming unraveled along one side. I'm wondering why on earth she is wearing a skirt at all on a Saturday, departing from the typical weekend teenage uniform consisting of pajamas and a sweatshirt. Still, she is nothing but a tiny beauty, the flaws in her apparel somehow only adding to the overall charm she exudes.

Alice begins to run through our school's faculty and her evaluation of their personal hygiene, starting with Mr. Banner's combination issues of comb over and dandruff. The sound of a car in the parking lot alerts us to the second potential customer of the day.

Carlisle stretches out of his Mercedes, all legs and length in that moment. He begins to circle the poorly parked Porsche, tapping the bumpers with his loafers while shaking his head.

"Shit!" Alice exclaims as she slides off the counter and begins to straighten her clothes, fiddling with the unraveled hem. I watch as she wipes her palms on her skirt and starts wringing her hands, growing more nervous at his approach.

_How could Mr. Camping-is-my-key-to-happiness invoke this in her?_

Before I have a chance to ask, the bells on the door are jingling.

* * *

**A/N: What would your warning label include?**


	8. Chp 7: Unsaid Things & a Houdini Escape

**Chapter 7: Unsaid Things & a Houdini Escape**

* * *

"Hello, Mary Alice," Carlisle's voice is stern, formal. It takes me a beat to realize he's talking to Alice, the Mary throwing me off completely.

"Hell-ooo." The word passes her lips quietly and drawn out. The effect is strange, hearing Alice speak this way. She looks down at her feet, yet stands with proper posture.

Immediately I'm suspicious- wondering if he's hit her. How could I not be with their strained body language and lack of dialogue just screaming out their obviously screwed up relationship? Twisted familial relations are something I'm familiar with.

Carlisle begins to remind Alice of what hour dinner will be served and reviews the time given for her curfew. Per usual I find the display that is going unsaid is far more intriguing than the banal dribble coming out of his mouth verbally.

Instead of listening, I watch. I see how his body is turned away from her, the way his eyes are bouncing around the store to look anywhere except at Alice's face.

He can't seem to bring himself to actually _look_ at his daughter. I can't help but think that all the camping trips in the world won't fix that.

Alice is no better. Unless the flecks in the tile beneath her are suddenly spelling out the cure for AIDS or God's reasoning for suffering in the world she really shouldn't find the linoleum so riveting.

"Esme has cut fresh flowers for the table, please make sure to compliment them at dinner. It will mean a lot to her."

"Mmm hmm," Alice murmurs. Her reply is not fitting, it jars with the disposition of bubble and vigor I have come to expect.

My patience with their exchange of platitudes has reached its limit.

"Carlisle, how's that reel working out for you?" I raise my volume higher than normal and cross out from behind the counter, demanding his attention.

"Hello, Bella!" His eyes soften as he turns to me, his shoulders releasing their tension. "I haven't had a chance to take it out yet, but I reviewed those training videos on the manufacturer's website like you suggested."

He holds his arms out and swings them, demonstrating his casting technique.

"I am confident that my form will be spot on when I debut my rod," he smiles at me and his eyes wrinkle at the edges.

At this point, I'm debating between pointing out his innuendo and telling him he looks like an idiot or offering to show him our collection of fishing DVDs. I just can't sort out what is going on here.

"Great, that's great. Were you looking for anything in particular?" Instead of the previous choices, I opt for moving his visit along so I can avoid another bout of father daughter drama. Newton's is to be a drama free zone, a neutral location in my life requiring no emotional energy whatsoever.

"I heard about these fabulous things on an online camping forum called 'Pie Irons'. You mash meat and bread in them and throw them on the campfire." While he's speaking my eyes dart over to Alice, who is slowly backing away, pretending to take in the carabineer display. Carlisle shifts his weight from one foot to another.

"Ahh, yes, Mountain Pie Makers. They are a wonderful thing. You can find them in aisle 4, with the rest of the cookware."

Already I think of Carlisle as a regular. In the past week he has made an appearance in the store during every shift but one. Usually, I find him refreshing. He is genuinely fascinated by wilderness activities and discussing the pros and cons of our products with him helps my afternoons go quickly. In one week he has dropped more money in this store than I have made in the last six months, yet as far as I know he has never put any of his purchases to use.

I was beginning to accept his face as a regular in the cast of characters in my life, albeit just as a fringe attendee. However, seeing this new layer revealed between him and Alice makes me question my assessment. Too many new presences in my life have gone unchecked.

"Thank you, Bella; you are reliable in your expertise as always." He turns, and nods towards Alice in dismissal.

I watch as he strides away, as if I could tell by his pacing how to classify his character. Would he step slower if he was an abuser? Would he be pigeon toed or sure footed? His steps are steady, and I am still perplexed.

Alice has dropped her carabineer act, choosing instead to lean on the counter with her head in her hands.

I don't really know what to say to her. Even a social pariah like me can tell that Alice is upset, and there is more to her relationship with her father than meets the eye. Still, I'm a horrible judge as to when it is appropriate to ask or when it is better to let things lie undisturbed.

I choose to tease, because at least then I'm saying something, "Mary? Really?"

"Ugh, please don't call me that vile name. My parents had a thing for old fashioned names, they feel they are…. Wait let me get this right…. 'classical and confident'. Hence: Edward Anthony and Mary Alice. Even then they were putting us in boxes of what we should become."

"I take it you don't get along well."

"It wasn't always like this. I was a spoiled Daddy's girl for most of my life. That started changing when instead of his time I got his credit card."

"I started competing for his attention and the whole thing sort of came to a head a few months ago. He may have caught me in a compromising position….page 45 of the Kama Sutra to be exact…with my 20 year old ex boyfriend…. calling him 'Daddy' ….in Carlisle's study….across his desk….using his silk ties as restraints."

As her confession goes on, her speed increases. The musical lilt that normally accompanies her tone is still absent, traded instead for the rushed breathlessness of discomfort and divulgence.

"Cry for attention much?" I quip.

There is an awkward pause, and I know I should have said something showing that I empathize. I can relate to paternal grief like no other, but I just can't seem manage to make the right words come out of my mouth.

"I attempted to memorize all the Mariner's stats when I was ten because I thought Charlie would talk to me about baseball. I got them mixed up when I finally tried to tell him what I learned. I'm pretty sure that's the last actual conversation we've had."

This is all I have to offer, and I feel inadequate at my first attempt at saying something comforting. However, Alice rewards my disclosure with a small smile.

"Everyone's just a little fucked up here, aren't we? We'll spend half our lives trying to make up for the mistakes of our birth and childhood."

Her words ring too true for my taste.

"I'm just glad he doesn't hit you or some shit like that. There aren't too many great places we could hide his body around here, the rain washes the dirt away too quickly."

She does more hugging, her arms enclosing me with enough force to expel the wind from my body.

"No, he doesn't hit me, Bella. Though we've never had an actual discussion about the whole thing and he did cut off the credit cards. I guess I finally got some sort of attention."

* * *

After the end of my shift, I say a quick goodbye to Alice and ring out Carlisle's purchases before heading over to Emmett's for his birthday festivities. On the walk over my pace slows to survey the neighborhood.

As a permanent pedestrian, I have seen these streets in every combination of season and time of day. It's odd how some things will be forever the same. Mr. Henderson always has his hedges in horrible disarray, Tyler Crowley' front porch has been half painted white since his dad died ten years ago, Mrs. Rodabaugh's cats have had the run of the neighborhood since before my birth. These are fixtures of my community, providing stability in their annoyance.

It's strange to think of myself as living anywhere but here, yet I hate the _here_ that I've been tied to by mere condition of my birth. People at school are starting to talk about where they will go to college; even Emmett and Rosalie regularly talk about where they will move. I have never even travelled out of the state. It's not the particulars of this location that I am bound to; rather it is the sense of familiarity. My acceptance has developed from the lowered expectations Forks has embedded in me.

Even if I were to set my sights on escape, I still have no clue where I would go. I don't even have a driver's license. Also, picturing myself in any other local leaves me with an ominous heaviness at the prospect of change. _How discontent do I have to become in order to welcome something new?_

When I round the corner onto the Newton's street the infamous mailbox comes into view, giving me something more concrete to focus on.

I kick the ashes and charred wood around with my toes and bend to stir up the rubble with my fingers, blatantly disregarding the perimeter of yellow and black with which Mrs. Newton has enclosed the area. The crime scene tape is completely unnecessary and has been erected almost as a display case to bring even more attention to the vandalism from last weekend. The Newtons like to play victim and stretch offenses for as long as possible. This is something I've learned from working for them. My eyes often glaze over and my mind travels far and wide while Mrs. Newton regurgitates her list of wrongs that have sparked umbrage.

The soot smears across my hands, catching under my jagged nails. The black deposit on my skin makes my pallor seem impossibly whiter.

This jumbled pile of singed wood used to be the envy of the neighborhood.

When we were twelve, Mr. Newton custom ordered a mailbox one to replicate his home. The small two inched windows and curves in the roof shingles along with every other detail corresponded exactly to their inspiration.

It used to be that I could stand across the street yards away and line myself up perfectly so that when I closed one eye the mailbox would align itself with the original home. Now, I think that the Newton's are glad that their outwardly immaculate home is not in the same condition as its trash heap of a replica.

Based on the remains, I think that the fire was set in the back left corner. The corresponding location in the actual floor plan would be Mike's bedroom and the closet of doom. I wonder if that is coincidental.

* * *

Tentatively, I ring the McCarty's doorbell. Relief pours over me to see Jasper's face when the door swings open.

"What the fuck's up with you? I've been watching you chain smoke while wandering down the road for like ten minutes."

"It's been a weird day. My brain won't shut off and I just got done seeing the teacup. That firecracker requires too much emotional intelligence."

"Oh really?" He quirks his eyebrow at me. I know he wants more details since it involves Alice, but the idea of rehashing her sexual confession for him dredges up the impulse of stabbing myself with the nearest sharp object in the eye. My stomach swells, I'm not used to keeping secrets from Jasper yet spilling this would feel like a betrayal.

"I will admit I find her draining yet delightful," I offer this as compensation for my lack of information.

Jasper's eyes light up, as if this statement provides a blanket of approval and permission for him to begin his pursuit.

I want to address the twinkle in his eye, but Rosalie appears before I get the chance. She grabs my wrist to drag me into the house. "Oh thank God you're here! I thought you were going to cut out on me!"

"If I weren't scared of your wrath, I would never have consented to this idea in the first place," I mumble, choosing the passive aggressive route of complaining to quietly for her to hear.

"What was that?"

"Umm, nothing…"

"That's right you said nothing, you pinky swore you would do this!"

I stop on the step and yank my arm away, "There are a great many negative things included in my nature, but being a pinky promise breaker is not one of them, Rosalie. However, that doesn't mean I'm thrilled about this."

Jasper follows us up the stairs to Emmett's bedroom where he awaits sprawled across the decrepit couch tucked in the corner.

The worn plaid green sofa was my gift to Emmett for his last birthday. On one of my many journeys venturing from my house to Jasper's home, I stumbled across the derelict find.

Where others would only see a pile of trash by the curb, I saw a solution. Emmett had been complaining for weeks that we never hung out at his house, and our main complaint was lack of seating. It wasn't as if we would feel comfortable sitting stiffly on his mother's flower printed antique furniture or all piled on his ridiculously small twin bed. This sofa was the answer.

Obviously, I couldn't even wrap the damn thing. Instead I made Emmett walk the whole way there blindfolded and let out a 'ta-da' for the reveal. Emmett was speechless, no rambunctious outburst or mockery of my treasure. A thank you and genuine hug was all that I was given, this simple response conveying more sincerity. He wouldn't even let Rosalie buy a slip cover for it when he and Jasper managed to haul it up the stairs into his bedroom.

Three bottles of Febreeze later and we started having movie nights at Emmett's house regularly.

There was no way this birthday was going to top that, despite what Rose may think.

"Happy birthday, Em." I pull his card from my bag and throw it on his stomach.

"Thanks guys," he smiles wide and rips into the envelope, already knowing that the contents are from Jasper and I both.

Twenty dollars worth of lottery tickets tumble out of the card, and Emmett's eyes light up as if they're golden tickets procuring entry to the Wonka Factory.

"Sweet! If I win a million dollars I'll pay you guys back for your initial investment."

"Ha ha, so funny. What a generous bastard you are," Jasper teases as he carefully balances his aviators and wallet on top of the television before pushing away Emmett's legs and sinking into the end of the couch.

"Statistically, this will be a waste for you. We'd be better friends if we just gave you the twenty in cash, but Rose felt it was important to stick with the theme," I confess before sliding into place next to Jasper.

"Oh yeah? What theme would that be?"

"Things you can purchase when you turn eighteen," I explain, hoping he will connect the dots and guess what Rose's gift will be before he opens it. My last thread of hope is that if he knows what he's getting from his girlfriend he'll kick Jasper and I out before the perversion ensues.

"It's our wish for you to get lucky today, one way or the other," Jasper winks and Rosalie slaps his arm.

Emmett furrows his brow, but before he can even begin guessing Rose's present she appears with gift in hand. She beams her sweetest smile at Emmett, pressing the frilly blue and cream wrapped package into his hands with a quick peck on the cheek.

I'm pulling at the seams of Jasper's jeans next to me, needing to distract myself from the fact that this is actually happening. He pushes my hand away and supplies me with a pillow to destroy instead, aware of the need to indulge my fidgeting. Nerve-wracking situations multiply my restless nature ten fold.

Emmett takes his time on this one, pulling the ribbon and ripping the tape away carefully from the paper. Rose's ribbon and lace wrapping would better fit a gift of love poems, chocolates, or a sentimental mixed tape, rather than the riveting tale of _Lord of the G-strings_ featuring girl on girl action. Once exposed, he clenches the DVD case in his hands and his eyes go wide.

"I thought you outlawed porn, Rose? Is there secretly a chick flick in here?"

When Rose and Emmett got together, she shredded all his porn magazines and cracked every adult film disk. Her threat was that if he wanted to see the real thing, he needed to give up the fantasy.

"Well, it's some kind of chick flick alright," Jasper quips. I can tell that he is feeling awkward as well, because his jokes usually have more finesse and an intelligent delivery. Weak humor is one of his tells, just as much as my squirming hands are mine.

"No, this is no joke. I wanted to give you something you'd really enjoy. My only condition is that I have to be here when you watch it."

"Well, thanks babe! This was really thoughtful."

I snort at this.

"Aren't you going to put it on?" She questions him as he goes to stash the DVD under the bed.

"Right now?"

"Well, yeah."

"With everyone here?" He is still half frozen, lifting the bed skirt in one hand, ready to stow the movie with the other.

Rosalie crosses her arms and puts on her 'you-will-comply' face, "I made Bella promise to watch it with me. I didn't want to be the only girl to have seen a porno."

Emmett turns to look at me questioningly. I try to explain, "She made me pinky promise. I made Jasper promise to watch it with us because I didn't want to be the third wheel watching a porno flick with the most sexually active couple I know."

Jasper shrugs and relaxes back into the couch, "As for my reasoning, I felt as though this was something not to be missed."

No one says anything for a moment, as if somehow we're all aware that there is a line about to be crossed.

"Well, it is movie night. Here goes nothing," with this Emmett relents to Rose and pops open the tray to the DVD player.

Rose clicks off the lights before taking her place on the couch between Emmett and I. The four of us look straight at the screen, avoiding eye contact.

While the loose premise is being set up, I'm in the clear. Hokey acting aside, it's not the worst thing I've every viewed. As the images turn to less innocent scenes my strategy becomes covering my eyes with my fingers. This should provide sufficient shielding while still allowing me to technically watch the movie and live up to my pinky promise. However, I can't help but peek through. Like a car wreck, I can't seem to resist watching the flashes of bodies bent in contortionist poses. Elbows, knees and other less innocent body parts are entangled and writhing before me in the flashing images on the screen.

This isn't exactly what I imagined seeing my first penis would be like. Not that I put that much thought into that anyway, but still….

I resort to pressing my palms into my eye sockets and forgoing my use of sight altogether. Even with my sense of vision obscured, the noises that are coming from the television are still enough to make me turn scarlet and feel squicky inside.

Despite _Lord of the G-strings_ reviews on the back panel of the case, I don't find this sensual or appealing, or a testament to the original story.

Jasper is still beside me and I long for some sort of physical connection to reassure me that the world is in fact not ending. However, the only contact I can muster is putting both of my bare feet on top of his closest foot. I can't tell if this is all I am willing to allow because of the awkward residue from our kiss, the worst of which has all but dissipated, or because he's a boy and there is a porn playing in the room so I feel weird about touching him. Either way, the top of his slip on van sneaker really isn't providing the necessary support to keep me from melting into a mound of mush.

Immediate escape is becoming necessary.

Suddenly, as if in answer to my internal plea for reprieve, Emmett's door springs open. Simultaneously, our heads snap to face the intruders and through my fingers I spot a crop of bronze followed by blur of black appear in the doorway.

As soon as I realize Edward and Alice are at the door, I hear Rosalie shriek and watch as she vaults over the couch to slam the door in their faces.

"Emmett! How could you not mention that they were coming!"

"I wasn't exactly expecting this for my birthday. I mean it's not every day you offer to watch porn with me. A small detail like inviting Edward and Alice over slipped my mind."

"Now they're going to think we're sexual deviant freaks!" Her embarrassment is on display in shades of crimson across her cheeks, marking this evening as one of a handful of occasions I have seen Rosalie Hale blush.

"Well, the freak part is accurate, but I'd say tonight we have crossed into new territory as far as sexual deviance is concerned. This is a level of weirdness I don't ever want to hit again in our friendship." Jasper runs his hand down his face repeatedly, as if the motion held the key to reversing the last twenty minutes of our lives.

"I agree with that one hundred percent."

"Great. Rose, Emmett, maybe you can explore this more in your personal time."

"Maybe someone should go get them so they're not just standing around in your hallway, Emmett," As the statement comes through my lips I realize that both Jasper and Emmett have yet to move from the couch, still seated in place with pillows over their laps. Their behavior alerts me to the potential danger and additional awkwardness that could ensue when they stand.

"I will handle this," I offer, moving swiftly towards Emmett's bedroom door.

Jasper raises his eyebrow at me to question my sudden willingness, as if to point out that I never offer to handle anything. This ticks me off a bit, because really he should be thankful I'm saving him from exposing his inevitable boner to the room.

"Jasper as much as I love you, I don't want to see you half mast. We've managed to avoid that so far so let's keep the streak alive."

I crack the door to find Alice and Edward standing side by side right on the other side, their brows quizzically furrowed in matching expressions of confusion. Slowly, I open it a little wider. However, instead of inviting them in, I creep out into the hall and click the door closed behind me.

In this one moment I've decided two things. The last twenty minutes have fulfilled my obligation to Rose and I'm going to throw Jasper to the dogs and leave him behind.

I plaster a smile on my face and extend, "Hello, welcome! Shall we go?" I grasp Alice's hand, and begin to pull her down the hallway and towards the stairs, much in the same way I was ushered up by Rosalie.

"What? I thought we were hanging out with Emmett for his birthday," her confusion is wasting precious time. We only have perhaps a minute before someone will come out looking for us and we need the head start.

Rushing, I explain,"Trust me I am saving you from a fate worse than death. I am an authority on uncomfortable situations, and this is one we all don't want to be a part of."

Edward is still dazedly staring at the bedroom door, and Alice has planted her feet at the top of the stairs with surprising strength for one so small.

"But…. Jasper…."

She is a lost cause, so enraptured already she's unwilling to pass up an evening with Jasper.

"Fine! That's fine. Go in, but you'll hate yourself later. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Thanks for understanding, Bella!" She slips her wrist from my grasp and gives me a kiss on the cheek before spinning around.

In a last attempt I holler, "They're watching _Lord of the G-strings_ in there, just so you know!"

"Great, one of my favorites!" She winks at me and turns the doorknob, entering the den of the dissolute.

In shock I freeze on the stairs, staring at Edward who is wearing an expression of surprise that must mirror my own. His hand comes up to pass through his lion's mane, and even now in the middle of this bizarre circumstance my heart beat picks up.

"There is no way I can watch porn with my sister in the room," he confesses, his eyes twinkling. "You guys sure have strange parties here. Even in the bigger cities I've lived in I've never been to a porno party."

His calm demeanor in the midst of a tempestuous circumstance somehow grounds me, quieting my internal drive to flee. The sudden sense of peace soothes me enough that I can take a much needed deep breath.

"Well, there's not much to do here. This is what happens when there's not even a fast food restaurant in a twenty mile radius. Sexual debauchery and devil worship take root."

"Oh, where do I sign up for the next séance?" He lifts the corner of his mouth into a smirk, smug with his banter. I want to pull the crooked lip between my teeth.

The attraction sends a wave of heat over my cheeks and emboldens me, "I'm not going to lie; I plan on using you as a means of escape Cullen. Please tell me that you drove here."

"Why Miss Swan, are you in need of a prince to rescue you on a white stallion?"

"Yes, yes I am, but you and your shitty Volvo will have to do."

Edward extends his hand in offering, the allure to take hold overwhelming. I can't help but remember the last time he touched my hand while he bandaged my burn with tenderness. The recollection of the look on my face when I caught my reflection in the mirror follows after.

I can tell that the smile I wear now would put even that one to shame.

In this moment, I don't want to review the pros and cons of accepting his offer of physical contact. I don't want to worry if this is a huge mistake. I don't want to worry what this means. I just want to be like any other teenage girl and take the hand of the boy I have a crush on without fear of how the future will unfold. I just want this moment, this one slice of my life, to be somewhat normal.

For once, I choose to take hold of the thing I want.

My palm is sweaty. My hand is too small to intertwine comfortably with his large knuckles and long fingers. My nails are ragged and dirty from the soot, and I'm rubbing grime onto Edward's clean skin.

This is perfect.

* * *

**A/N: What is the funniest adult film title you have ever heard?**


	9. Chp 8: Clementines and Categories

**Chp. 8: Clementines**

I run my hands across his leather seats, the tears and imperfections rough under my skin. Crusted over spots of old ketchup, mustard, or some other sort of condiment mar the smooth black upholstery. I'm up to my ankles in old fast food debris, hence the condiment assumption over the source of the crust.

Years ago there was a rickety taco stand down in La Push that got shut down by the health department; people still talk about their taquitos as if they are things of legend. Apart from that there has never been any McDonalds, Burger Kings, or Wendy's within three zip codes.

Edward has lived in Forks for a month now.

Put this time line together in your mind and really think about it. Only then will you begin to understand the funk I smell in this instant. _Funk_ is really the only word for it.

I feel sealed in, like a Ziploc bag, stuck with the heavy aroma of putrid leftover fries. I imagine a hint of rotting tomato in the fumes. Edward seems like the type to pull the tomatoes off his burgers.

Moments ago, I was worried he'd be one of those boys that freaks over their car; the type to wash and polish their treasured item as if it were his phallus. Jasper has these tendencies. While his Vega is undeniably a beater car, the shimmer it brings to his eyes would appear to make it worthy of being dipped in bronze for a keepsake.

He wouldn't let me smoke in it for the first six months we were friends. That was back when I was a pack a day person, and he eventually got sick of pulling over to the side of the road for me to steal a quick cigarette. While his prohibition has ebbed, he still has a window-all-the-way-down policy, even in the winter.

I have this one frozen moment to be alone in Edward's Volvo, and I'm spending it wishing for one of those convenient tree shaped air fresheners to hang from his rear view mirror like a talisman against the bugs I know are crawling around in here.

Retreating from the bedroom of sexual immorality was an impulsive decision. Now, Edward will be joining me in approximately ten seconds. I will have to make an attempt to be normal and socially appropriate.

This may have been a poor choice.

Jasper once teased that I should keep an index card tucked in my pocket for situations just like this. At the time, I told him that if I couldn't just talk to someone it wasn't worth the effort of forcing a topic. Silence is more my style, I wear it like an old friend.

Now, however, I find myself wishing he had pulled through on the concept and supplied me with a list of conversation starters.

Edward is leaning outside of his door and texting someone at an alarming rate on his phone, his thumb taps on the keypad in sync with my racing heart rate over the impending isolation for two.

Already, the adrenaline of escape has fled, leaving me empty and tense in its wake.

Edward cracks his door and slides into his seat, glancing down at my feet to belatedly notice the mess.

"Your car smells like death. I'm pretty sure there is something alive crawling on my foot," why the comment comes out in almost a whisper, I'm not quite sure. My brain told my voice to be light and humorous, but my body is operating in panic mode and prone to disobey.

"Sorry 'bout that," he mumbles as he grabs the trash and relocates it to the backseat. I peek behind us to see what he has collected in here. Newspapers, slushy cups, and an assortment of jeans and black t-shirts make up the discernable contents; a motley assemblage of effects that affirm his status as a teenage male.

While he moves the garbage my mind is trying to form an explanation as to why I want to go to Jasper's house when he won't be there. Concern is brewing over how far in depth I'll have to go with my codependent situation and how much divulgence is necessary about why I don't want to go home.

"So, where to? Is anywhere open around here after eight o'clock?"

I was expecting him to ask for directions to my house.

I'm left speechless, stunned that Edward wants to go anywhere with me besides dropping me off at the curb of my house.

Edward starts his car and I'm staring at the ignition as if the running engine could now apply its power to spark my tongue into a response.

"Umm, Bella?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry," I glance to the neon glow on the dash, the numbers alerting me that there is only one place open this late in Forks for the under twenty-one crowd. "I guess our options are limited to the diner."

"Diner it is than."

Now, the humming of the tires takes over. Its only accompaniment is music playing so softly through the blown speakers I can't even discern the genre. We sit in the quiet, and I begin to squirm.

I'm jealous of his ability to drive in this moment, purely because the action gives him a steering wheel to hold and knobs to fidget with at his leisure while I am sitting stock still with hands folded in lap.

In an attempt to impede the inevitable slide into silence, I pluck up some courage and make my tongue formulate words.

"Do you like living here?" I question, envisioning the topic on my imaginary 3x5 card in Jasper's writing.

"Too soon to tell. It's the smallest place I've ever lived, but I haven't decided how I feel about that yet," he speaks smoothly, as if he doesn't feel the tension filling the car and choking me. "What about you, do you like Forks?"

A slur for this town forms in my mouth; nearly tangible as it wraps itself around my teeth, vying for vocalization. It wants to taint this moment, to tarnish Edward's still forming view of life in Forks. I am aware enough of my own bias perceptions to know that my negativity stems more from sour personal experience rather than the locale.

Forks has merely been the backdrop of my life's pitiful occurrences. It dose not deserve my scorn as though it were an active participant in my fate.

So I swallow down my slander, wanting to regain the elation of escape that coursed through me when I took Edward's hand on the stairs.

The skeletons in my closet rattle, but those, too, I silence.

"I haven't lived anywhere else. This is all the experience I have," thinking on my lack of travels has made me feel uncultured and ignorant.

"I guess I take it for granted that we moved so much. It seems weird to me that most people _here_ have always been _here, _you know?"

"No one comes back who leaves; the town is full of people who can't wait to get out and people who never found the balls to run. But people are people no matter where you go. Seems like if someone is unhappy here, they'd be unhappy anywhere. Just a different set of problems to complain about."

If you want to be miserable you will; you are your own self fulfilling prophecy. This is the lesson I have learned form a lifetime with Charlie, the king of discontent. He has imparted the only wisdom he has to offer in this one statement, even this insight garnished only by watching his life as an outsider.

While I see the importance in positive thinking, my habitual patterns of pessimism are hard to break. I'm at the mercy of my bad habits and inherited negative viewpoint, even though I see them as poison.

The silence returns. Once again not the companionable quiet that I would like. Rather, it falls heavy over us as if awkward air is being forced from every vent, compelling any ease through the cracks of our steel cage.

* * *

In my opinion, Sally Wakefield is a _professional_ waitress. Born and raised in Forks, she has chosen to stay in this miniscule town, leaving her with few career options. There are only so many doctors and lawyers needed to support a town of three thousand; you need to set your sights a little lower if unwilling to make a lengthy commute.

Sally has been employed at Fork's one and only diner for the last decade and if they hand an employee of the month plaque her name would be etched repeatedly into the tacky brass plating.

I try to classify the citizens of Forks with two small specifics that make them unique. This is how I keep track of the peripheral individuals with which I share the town.

For Sally, in my mind she is equally known for her cheerful gingham printed blouses in a plethora of colors and her competency in ambidextrous pouring no matter what liquid or vessel she is faced with.

I've just finished explaining my classification system to Edward, who seems intrigued to my surprise.

"So, you're saying your head is like one giant spreadsheet? Do another one for me," he points subtly towards a man at the counter a few feet away. I pull my eyes away from his graceful, yet somehow masculine, fingers to direct my view towards a gruff plaid covered retiree from the forestry industry.

"That's Mr. McKenzie. He is an expert at building bird houses and prefers fruity flavors over chocolate."

"Did you just make those up based on a guess and his choice of cherry pie?" Edward questions, as he draws the ketchup bottle closer and begins to peel off the label with ragged nails.

"No, but I will admit that most of these tags of mine were formed while sitting in this diner. A little over a year ago I spent a lot of time in here. I swear if you sit in one of these booths long enough the entire population will pass you by."

I don't explain why I became so familiar with these brown vinyl booths. I remember sitting in here while I still had bandages covering my stitched up arms. I laid them for the world to see atop the dark resin table; peeling the label off the ketchup bottles myself. I'm surprised there is a bottle left for Edward to fidget with now that hasn't fallen pray to my own restless hands.

At first no one knew why I was in the hospital, most assumed some sort of accident brought about by my clumsy nature. Some even sent flowers and cards; hollow gestures meant more for my father's position than for me. However, despite the HIPAA laws protecting my privacy the truth spread like a virus around the town. Everyone was whispering once the facts came out about my attempt.

This should have upset me, having my problems laid out for public perusal. Yet, it became empowering to have the reality of my inner anguish out in the open for the world to see. I found myself wanting to flaunt it. _Yeah I'm fucked up, how could you not have noticed before._

So rather than hole up in my bleak barren bedroom and watch the few penetrating beams of sunlight make their way across the ceiling day after day, I went to the diner and sat in a booth on display.

People stared, as is only to be expected. They looked at my arms, my poorly concealed wounds, and then inevitably looked at my face. I felt like it was the first time anyone had really ever _looked_ at me, seen me passed the quiet police chief's daughter. I became addicted to it.

In a strange way, I've been fond of the diner ever since that time. As if sitting here in a booth I began to ripen, like a winter Clementine, only able to come of age in the cold. While I'm still on the branch, at least I've acknowledge to process.

Edward catches my elbow where it rests on the table, obviously aware of my sudden darkening mood as I roll my past diner experiences through my mind.

Thankfully he doesn't push for the why, instead renewing our discussion, "I like this system of yours. How would I fit, what two things would you use for me?"

Shifting my thoughts to Edward lightens my countenance. I have bee exploring him in my thoughts since he first appeared. I could list for him things I've noticed during class and our dinners, fragments of character and habit.

_You can be haughty when you think you're smarter than someone._

_You prefer your meat cooked medium rare and extra butter on your potatoes._

_You may or may not be a pyromaniac, but you are definitely prone to overreaction._

_You doodle comic strips staring a stickman ninja across you biology notes with little artistic talent, but much originality in storyline._

However, it just seems off. How I could pick only two to highlight and sum him up when I am constantly ravenous to learn additional morsels of his nature.

"This is for people on the outside edges. You hardly seem to be on the outskirts, I'd say the whole porn party experience has thrown you right in the mix. I don't think this method can apply to you."

Slowly, a smirk spreads across his face. I can't tell if he is smug with the knowledge that he makes the short list of people I actually speak to, or if he is merely amused with the cataloging technique in general.

"Than go off my first impression, as if we had just met."

At this moment Edward must be too focused on dragging his two tidbits out of me to recall our first encounter. I debate between letting the opening slide and taking my chance to provoke.

"Alright. I would say violently loyal to a fault and has one hell of a right hook even when slightly inebriated."

Edward's eyes widen and he leans back against his booth, withdrawing as if I had smacked him.

"Umm…..just kidding. Have we still not reached the point where that's okay to joke about?" I never meant him to take my words so seriously.

The easy exchange of words we had gained once again shuts down. I feel my whole body tense with the loss, and one more round of anxiety is about all I'll be able to take this evening. My relations with Edward sway like a pendulum, swinging to heights of connection and depths of discomfort I never would have thought possible with someone I've only know for a few weeks.

"No, I deserve that. It's alright," he murmurs, and twists his lips into a false smile. This tells me that it is not in fact, alright.

We sit in the quiet, letting the clink of silverware and hiss of the fryer take over where our words won't.

The tide of anxiety that has repeatedly risen and receded in the past hour finally breaks, washing over me until sitting still in this booth is impossible.

I slide out, passing Edward with, "I'll be right back," as I make my way to the restroom.

* * *

On the way back I shake off the lingering fog from my unsuccessful attempt at a self pep talk in the bathroom. Pressing my still damp palm to my cheek, I am greeted by a disturbing scene when I round the corner.

The new occupant of my dinner table is classified as an unintelligent yet surprisingly devious bitch with a penchant for covering her inner evil with designer labels. At the moment though, I feel revisions are necessary to convey the true depth of my loathing.

Lauren Mallory is tucked in _my_ booth, in _my_ seat, playing with the cherry stem _I_ left next to _my _rapidly melting milkshake.

She's leaning across the table, closing in on Edward's personal space with a confidence that masks her intrusiveness. She's angled to provide an eyeful of sun kissed cleavage as she bats her lashes in a cliché, yet effective, flirtatious spectacle.

I want to choke her with her Tiffany necklace.

From here, only the rear of Edward's mane is visible over the back of the booth. I am unable to gleam any indication of his reaction to the newly acquired dinner guest from the tousled dark auburn mess.

Her blonde hair cascades like a river down her shoulders. A few of the golden ends are caught between her thumb and pointer, rolling between the fingers with a practiced rhythm. She flirts with ease, while I can barely turn a phrase with sufficiency.

Just like that my feet become captured by the stained carpet beneath my shoes. As if the horrible green professional grade carpet has grown to knot and detain my boney ankles.

If it were Jasper stuck there with the walking STD, I would know an immediate rescue attempt would be warranted. I could waltz casually over; drawing my confidence from the assured response my best friend would give, and reclaim my place. Or perhaps offer him escape with a snarky back handed statement directed towards Flashy Tits McGee.

Actually, if it were Jasper he would have extracted himself from her wicked gaze using his magical charm and disarming way with words. We would have been in the parking lot five minuets ago trading witty commentary about Lauren's cankles and future carcinoma.

But it's not Jasper.

It's Edward, and we're practically strangers. For all I know he could have arranged for her to meet him here after Emmett's party, using me to fill time before a date. He could be thankful to finally have a proper companion at the table and relieved at my absence; thankful to shed the broken girl.

My feet have snapped to action at last, deciding for me that I am not returning to the booth, sparing myself another round of embarrassment this night. Instead, they carry me to the counter where I fish a crumpled five out of the pocket of my jeans and slip it Sally's way.

With a directive to keep the change and a quick offering of thanks, I'm headed for the door. The jingling bells in place on the handle offer a twisted postlude to accompany my escape into the night.

Maybe I don't like the public exposure of the diner after all.

* * *

**A/N: What is your favorite diner food?**

* * *


	10. Chp 9: Vehement Vocalizations

**Chp 9: Vehement Verbalizations**

Flip flops are a poor shoe choice for fall nights.

The rest of my body is chilled, but in the pleasant way that reminds you of the change of season and makes you nostalgic for leaf piles and warm cider. My feet, however, are pins and needles in the wind, angrily yielding to my command to trudge forward.

I want to tell myself that my escape from the diner was a choice to opt out of social constructs, an act of rebellion to avoid a scene of jealousy of which I want no part.

Of course, this is a lie.

I am a coward.

I feel like my life was stolen from me, and with it any right to feel entitlement or jealousy. Even worse, _I was the thief_. I am unworthy and undeserving, made so by my own hand.

These feeling seem so encompassing and I want to push them away, to think of only the gravel beneath my feet and the few stars I can glimpse through the cloud cover. I want to feel small and inconsequential rather than overrun with _emotions_. Perhaps if I try to focus on the close up, the minute details, the bigger picture will blur enough to be less overwhelming.

Things are not staying in the deep down tight little cage I push them in. It's as if they have sprung from their prison and are coursing through my veins; liquid misery taking the place of my blood. All I can do is push my feet against the pavement faster and faster in an attempt to leave it all behind.

Strangely enough, it is my craving for the chocolate triple thick milkshake with homemade whipped cream that brings me back from the edge. More than anything, I'm really pissed that I only got one sip, like a tease of something promised.

I really want that damn milkshake.

Lauren probably is just wasting it, letting it melt and run brown rivulets down the side of its cheery frosted glass.

Footsteps slap on the pavement behind me. The night is late enough that it is bordering on morning, so hearing someone should make me nervous. However, the pace of the stride tells me not to fear.

Jasper is approaching.

"Isabellarina, we should get you a cell phone if you're going to start doing this again," the pet name rolls from his lips to comfort.

He isn't even breathing hard, while I'm sucking down oxygen like a vacuum. I make a vow to reevaluate my opinion on being addicted to cigarettes. Jasper brings his footfalls to match my own, the sound of our steps becoming rhythmic as I briskly move on.

Where just moments ago I was alone and contemplating the universe, now my best friend is here and things already look a little less significant. Like maybe Lauren Mallory checking out Edward across the booth isn't something I need to get all despondent about.

"I think you are jealous of my spontaneous streak that leads me to stroll aimlessly in the middle of the night," I slow a bit, desiring to have easier breaths lend themselves to speaking.

He exhales and I picture the visible cloud of foggy breath taking with it some of his worry.

"I am not jealous. It's cold out and your feet are dirty as hell."

"You should be more impulsive, Jasper. You only get this one life."

"Really? _You're_ going to start talking about the importance of life now? Besides, impulsive people end up as murderers."

"Touché. Where is the teacup?" If he sacrificed spending time with Alice in order to hunt me down I'll feel guilty as hell.

"A few blocks back in the Vega. I told her to hang tight while I came and knocked some sense into you."

I'm surprised he left her in the Vega alone, his sacred vehicular domain unguarded.

"So you survived _Lord of the G Strings?"_

"Turns out Alice really goes for that shit."

It becomes quiet, and Jasper pulls me to a stop and directs me down to sit on the curb. My body revolts against the stillness and my legs burn with the former rhythm of my steps. Already, the concrete creeps to steal the warmth from my body. I welcome its leeching pull, wanting to have the chill fill me rather than my melodramatic thoughts.

Jasper kicks off his shoes and tugs off his socks, handing them to me unceremoniously before yanking his sneakers back on. I take the offered warmth and cover my feet, placing my inadequate flip flops next to me and flexing my tingling toes to call my blood back.

"So, you decided to leave the diner unannounced?"

I pull out my crumpled pack and light a cigarette in prelude of Jasper's tête-à-tête, mirroring the exhaling cloud of breath he exudes with my own formed of nicotine and carcinogenic.

"More like Edward met someone else more fitting and I took my cue to make an exit."

He sighs, not buying my line of bull shit and calling me out, "Now, I have it on good authority that _you_ actually left _him_ in Lauren Mallory's disease ridden clutches."

"Do you think she really has a disease? I mean, we constantly use that angle to tear her down. I wonder if she actually does have herpes or something."

"I have no idea, and it might ruin the mystery if I find out. I like the idea that under her pink cotton panties there is a whole host of gruesome maladies that could be lurking."

"Now, Jasper, how do you know her panties are pink? Is there something you need to confess to me?"

"You're trying to sidetrack me here by questioning my sexual history, and it's just not going to work," he pulls the butt from my hands and crumples it under foot. "Why have we not talked about you and Edward Cullen yet? I mean, I'm not saying I want to start braiding each others' hair and shit, but this seems like the thing you would usually mention to me. If there were a precedence for you actually liking a guy, that is."

"Do you think it will always be like this?" I question, avoiding his line of thinking all together.

"What do you mean? Will we always have to have all our meaningful conversations at night outside regardless of the temperature?"

"No. I mean, do you think I'll always feel like a self-exiled outsider?"

He stops rubbing warmth into his thighs, understanding that my words are taking us to a more serious place than usual.

"Are you feeling like before? Are you getting worse again?" The questions are voiced softly, an indication of his fear.

Jasper didn't know me at my worst. We became friends a month after I tried to die, right in the booths of the diner I have just fled. Even then, I was not a joy to be around. I had been brought to a place where I was willing to choose death over everything else, and it didn't suddenly get better since I had botched offing myself. I didn't awaken filled with delight or even remorse for what I had done. Rather, I was filled with regret that I had failed, now stuck without feeling in some of my fingers and more problems to drown in.

This, too, I had failed at.

Still somehow, over my chocolate milkshakes and his penchant for tomato soup at any time of day, we managed to become friends. As in real _friends_, not the through away use of the word that is all too common.

A lot from those early months is clouded for me. My memories are coated in a film from all the antidepressants mixed with pain medicine they were pumping into my system, as if chemicals could change my outlook and heal my arms in one fell swoop.

Yet finding Jasper is not blurred. Discussing his thoughts on junk mail and his theories on how our culture could return to the bartering system, along with any other random topic we covered in the booth, are some of the few lucid memories I retain from that time.

We didn't even talk about my attempt, and we never really have. Jasper has checked out every book the Forks library has to offer on teenage depression and suicide, but he didn't push me to actually voice anything.

We just were, and we just are. Thinking of all this just makes me wish again that we could be different, that I could be his petite beauty with exotic flair and he could be my….well, my whatever the hell Edward was becoming.

I force myself to roll Jasper's questions around in my mind, trying to get an objective grasp of my mental state. Running through the last few weeks greets me with the surprising realizing that I am in fact not getting worse.

I am quick to reassure him now that I realize my long pause probably is making him panic, "Actually, I'm fine."

He raises an eyebrow my way, forcing it so high on his forehead with his disbelief that I fear it will migrate to his hairline permanently.

"Come on, my social circle has nearly doubled in size, and while that has caused some growing pains, I still think that I am doing okay."

"Well, good. But just say something if…. well, if you know," his words drop off.

"If I am feeling like taking a dive off a cliff or swallowing large amounts of rat poison?"

"Yes. Although, if you're contemplating swallowing _any_ amount of rat poison that would be good to know," his shoulders release their tension with the return of our banter and he goes back to rubbing his thighs for warmth.

"I'm really okay. But thanks for asking, and checking in on me. Things are just changing, and I can't tell yet for sure but that seems like a good thing."

"Oh, it's definitely a good thing. I think that you're finally starting to try again. For so long all you would do is get up, be sullen, go to school, brood some more, go to work, be grim, come to my house, say something snarky, go to sleep and repeat again the next day. It's good to see you breaking out of this routine."

"Having a routine is reliable and keeps me steady. Besides, I don't think I brood," really I don't.

"You are the queen of brooding. Rose, Em, and I are all a little out of our depth. We know you have hurts that none of us can touch or understand, but we're your friends and God knows you need someone, so we try our best."

"It's okay for you to like a guy, Bella. You're allowed to want something for yourself."

He voices the sentiment as if it's nothing, as if it wasn't the echoing fear that sent my fleeing from the diner.

Jasper is spitting out wisdom like it generates from his salivation glands, and I find myself wondering when he figured everything out and how he developed all these smooth sentences to convey life lessons. However, I think it's more important to just swallow them down and try to absorb what will stick to my ribs.

"Thanks, for saying that. And for everything else. Having you, Rose, and Em has given me the closest thing to what I imagine normal is like. I know that it's weird, and I know that my dependency on you is probably not healthy, but it's not like I've ever really been healthy."

I lean back, letting my shoulders fall to the concrete sidewalk as I look above to the treetops along the forest edge a few feet behind us. Their outline against the night clouds forms knuckles of the earth, and I raise my finger to trace their dips and swells across the sky line.

The weight of my worries sheds with my ministrations, and I finally start feeling the lateness of the hour, my heavy eye lids begging me to sleep right on the hard ground.

However, my drowsiness is interrupted by the screech of tires pulling down the street. I prop myself up on my elbows to watch the silver blur approach, my stomach twisting when it realizes that Edward is coming.

Where Edward has stepped out of his car the streetlight casts a halo around his disheveled locks, as if it is declaring him a saint of the lampposts. I watch as the glow encompasses him, turning into an aureole enveloping his whole shining form. The sight changes the twist of worry in my stomach to a whole different kind of coil. I am reminded again that I could never settle for Jasper, or allow him to settle for me, when there is someone out there who can make me feel this pure attraction.

Edward comes to a stop a few feet away, as if Jasper has created a tangible circle with his words that he is hesitant to approach. Then Edward imparts a nod directed towards Jasper, who nods in return and rises to his feet.

"I'll see you at home, okay?" Jasper claps his hands together, wipes off the lingering cold from the sidewalk, and jogs off towards the Vega, loose shoe strings smacking the pavement like castanets with the tempo of his steps.

I can't help but wonder if the head bob they exchanged is some universal guy nod that can be used in any situation. As if one small movement of the head can not only convey a greeting, but also an acknowledgement of our whole situation. In this moment I imagine it to sum up 'hello-please-leave-I-need-to-have-a-weird-conversation-in-private-thanks'. Without such a request I don't think Jasper would have left me.

I'm still sitting on the curb, unwilling to move until I can glean some sort of understanding as to Edward's mood or the reason for his sudden appearance. When he gets close enough I see that his eyes are on fire, glaring with as much intensity as they did that first biology class.

In this moment, Edward Cullen must hate me.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His terse question tells me I'm on the right track with my assumptions. He begins pacing as he addresses me, covering a short area on the pavement before pivoting and marching back with a renewed sense of vigor. I watch him make the circuit repeatedly, trying not to notice the way his arm muscles expand and contract when he clenches his fists.

I make a conscious choice not to match his anger, instead I match his clenching by curling and uncurling my toes hidden safely within Jasper's socks. I keep my tone steady as I reply, "A lot, actually. More than can be covered in one conversation." I try to appear cavalier, laying back down to welcome the cold pavement, feeling the flecks of cement press into my shoulder blades as I retreat from his scorching eyes.

"You can't just take off like that on someone, if you wanted to leave you should have just said so."

My anger flares, bucking my attempts to keep my cool. I feel unreasonably attacked so I spit, "I didn't think you'd here my voice over all the pheromones surrounding you and the Disney princess."

"So you just left me there because some girl was annoying me while you went to take a shit?"

I feel the heat of the blood pooling in my cheeks. Frustrated at my embarrassment, I bring the heels of my palms up to press against my eyes. However, I still decide it is better for him to think that I was shitting in the diner than have him know about my twisted pep talk.

"You didn't seem to mind," I whisper, my resentment dissipating and with it my volume now that I realize my overreaction. We're back to the pendulum swing, my frame of mind bouncing across the emotional spectrum with every reply.

The reverberation of his methodical steps halts, alerting me he has paused right in front of me in the street. Still, I don't look up as I listen to him quietly begin, "I took _you_ to the diner, Bella. Not some Barbie with shit for brains. It's not my style to ditch." His tone still cuts like a razor.

Finally I prop myself up on my elbows, attempting to look him straight in the eye. Instead, I settle more for vaguely looking at his forehead, lacking the courage to truly face him down while the light is shining through his hair that way. I snap, "How was I supposed to know? I can't read your mind, Edward. For all I know you were pissed that you got stuck with me tonight."

He says nothing, breathing in and out slowly in an attempt to calm his temper. While the situation we're in does justify some annoyance, his anger has brought him to take a trip on the overreaction train as well. I'm just about to point this out, just about to quip about how he's a hot head too and should just let it go, when he speaks.

"I'm interested in you, okay. I'll spell it out since we're having so much trouble here. I find you intriguing and snarky and I want to know how you tick, etcetera," he holds his hands wide, opening them as if revealing hidden aces up his sleeves.

Now, I find myself stealing Alice's little 'o', wearing the shocked expression fully.

He presses on, words falling faster now that he's begun, "I know it's weird to say it, Bella. I'm supposed to be subtle and dance around the issue and convey my interest by complimenting you or some other shit, but that's just not working."

He is still pacing and his tone still reflects his earlier anger, causing a contrast between the amorous words he saying and the way he's voicing them with annoyance.

The paralysis of my tongue weakens enough to question, "Did you just use the word etcetera in your declaration?"

This seems to snap the edginess from the air, draining the conflict from our conversation and bringing us to a point where bluntness reigns.

"Normally, I don't have to say anything, or pursue anything I want. Typical girls are caught up in my looks and charm enough to do the work for me. This, this is new."

Somehow he manages to only sound slightly pompous with his statement, and is it really arrogance if it's true? I have no doubt that Edward is usually fawned over. I picture the girls dangling like cherries from the tree, with him able to pluck his choice among the more than willing ripened fruit. In this scenario I am rotting on the ground, my seeds and juice meant only for the mud.

But this is too important a moment to spend it picturing dead fruit.

"Well, I am far from typical, and I'm too fucked up to do things the _normal_ way. But, I'm willing to follow your lead," I rise to my feet, brushing the small pebbles from my arms as I meet his gaze with as much height as my small stature will allow.

"I am mutually interested, etcetera," I swallow, and divert my eyes slightly with my confession. As much as I'm a fan of honesty and cutting through bullshit, it still seems like we're doing this all backwards. "This is really strange, even for me," I admit.

"I know, and that's part of the appeal."

The truth of our exchange hangs over us, but not like the heavy silence we've been faced with at different intervals throughout the night, which was awkward and impenetrable. Rather, it seems as if something has been lifted, like the air is easier to breathe and lighter with our acknowledgement.

* * *

**A/N: The general consensus is that adding questions is lame so.... nix on that I guess.**

**The concept of a 'universal guy nod' is something I've heard before, but I can't remember where. I bent it for my use here, but wanted you to know I don't claim it. **

**Also, I know this was like 90% dialogue, which is hard for me because Bella speaking does not sound the same as Bella thinking. I didn't want it to come off like Dawson's Creek conversation (you know what I mean?), so that is the reason for the wait.**

**And now, I'd say we've hit at least half way : D Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing.**


	11. Chp 10: Cadavers and Cookies

**A/N: I did not die, in case you were wondering. Thank you to StruckUponAStar for making this better.**

**It has been two weeks since the 'etcetera' conversation. This is noted in a vague way, but I wanted to clarify here. **

* * *

**Chp. 10 Cadavers and Cookies**

"_Isabella Swan please report to the guidance counselor's office."_

I take back every cruel thing I've ever said or thought about Geography. Right now, Geography is where I want to be. The classroom I normally despise somehow taking on the role of safe haven in my mind.

I don't want to go to the guidance counselor's office.

I have been herded in the educational system long enough to know I don't have a choice. Despite the _please_ attached to the announcement, it is a directive all the same. In this moment I feel akin to the first cow led up the slaughterhouse shoot, being corralled to my torment.

As a junior, I have the thrill of being subjected to a meeting discussing my goals for the future and plans for college. This shouldn't bring the flip of dread to my belly that it does, but this meeting brings together two of my most hated passions: obligatory conversation and talk of the future.

I take my time collecting my belongings from the floor and amble through the halls playing a silent game that involves touching every locker door. Ten minutes later I make my way into the school office.

The school secretary, Mrs. Cope, is hunched at her desk, glassy eyed and inattentive. Her yellow shirt is the same color as the manila envelopes stacked on the shelves behind her desk, as if she could blend in with her office surroundings at any moment.

Mrs. Cope is one Forks resident that I never see outside of the school. It is almost as though she is only able to survive in the presence of a filing cabinet and a stock of Bic fine point black ink pens. Apart from this she doesn't exist, blending into the seventies print carpet when the final bell tolls each day. Her two snippets in my classification system are based on her preference of classic yellow post-its and her ability to utilize a pencil down to a mere stub.

Before I am forced to engage her, Mr. Stark's voice beckons me into his office.

I drag my feet along, only pausing to push his office door open the entire way before taking the designated seat in front of his pricey mahogany desk. I am placing trust in Mrs. Cope to intervene if I try to murder Mr. Stark, and want the sound of his screams to travel unobstructed to her.

Mr. Stark stands when I enter, offering his palm across the desk to where I am seated. He is shades of neutral through and through, brown on brown plaid and khaki pants wrapping a man of average height, average weight, and average intelligence. The only thing that stands out about Mr. Stark is the size of his nostrils. I am confident a nickel would easily fit into the twin caverns on his face. I grasp the ends of his hand and pump our fingers minutely, conceding at least to this small contact.

When he is seated once again he props his elbows on the arms of his chair, tenting his fingers to meet in front of his chin where he taps them lightly. He sighs loudly, creasing his brow in what I'm sure is meant to be a look of compassionate concern. In reality, it conveys that he is constipated.

"I know you have been going through a difficult time, Isabella," he reaches out to tap my hand in what is meant to be a formal gesture of comfort. I promptly remove my limbs from the desk and press myself further into my chair, trying desperately to gain a few centimeters of distance.

"Teenage years can be trying, but you will get through it. Soon this incident will be a distant memory you can draw strength from."

I'm assuming the _'incident'_ he's referring to my suicide attempt. However, he speaks as though there are still 'Get Well Soon' balloons losing helium in my bedroom, wafting until they slowly hit the worn carpet with their silent demise.

I wonder how well informed guidance counselors are kept and I'm beginning to question my earlier assessment of _average_ intelligence. He must not realize that over a year and a half has passed since my _'incident'_.

He pulls a note card from off the desk, holding it up so close to his face that it nearly taps the end of his nose. I half expect some sort of troll to emerge from his giant nostril and gobble it. My eyes drift away from his nose, taking in the words on the back of the card.

_It is important to connect with compassionate people to support you during this difficult time. Make goals to achieve ordinary tasks and maintain daily routines._

Mr. Stark begins reading the card to me, "You should build relationships with positive influences and treat each day as a new opportunity." He flips it over and begins on the back sentences that I have already read; the front now visible to me. Along with the words he has already spoken I see the top clearly labeled _'Suicidal Student'._

I interrupt and speak the last sentence over him, "Make goals to achieve ordinary tasks and maintain daily routines."

"Well, I see that you are perusing ways to lead a healthy life and taking positive steps to correct your mindset." He is taking my tandem lines as like-mindedness and it seems as though the easiest option is to let him keep his assumption.

Mr. Stark smiles and returns the card to one of his drawers. I peek over the desk to see that it is full of similar notes. I imagine headers of _'Teenage Pregnancy', 'Discovering Sexual Identity'_, and _'Family Member Death'_ all have their rightful place in his drawer of guidance. Perhaps he has an index to cross-reference a multitude of teen issues.

He reaches down and crosses my name off a yellow post-it-note Mrs. Cope has undoubtedly provided. Drawing a line clear through the letters that designate me as if a simple 3 x 5 is all it takes to counsel someone.

This is the person who is meant to advise my future, to direct how I will make my next set of major life choices. My lack of confidence in the educational system of Forks has hit a new all time low, scraping depths never before imagined.

"So, Isabella, let's talk about your future," he raises his eyebrows excitedly and moves forward in his chair, obviously glad to be past what he felt would be the most difficult part of our conversation.

The rest of our time is spent with me concocting an elaborate lie about my dreams of becoming a mortician and developing new methods to utilize spray on tans on the dead to make them seem more lifelike.

"Because we all know no one wants their dead relative to look pasty. If I could find a way to incorporate a few tanning sessions for corpses after their embalming, I just might find a niche in the death market and be wildly successful."

Mr. Stark is nodding his head encouragingly, swallowing the shit I'm sending his way with delight.

"I'll get back to you with some pamphlets on the closest mortuary colleges."

While twisting this lie far past the realm of acceptable career pursuits, I can't help but think of the one thing I can admit to wanting in my future. It's strange to want something, to feel like I have something to look forward to.

When heading towards the office my stomach was knotted in dread, but upon leaving my heart is pumping and full of possibilities. After this meeting I can attest that Mr. Stark fails as a guidance counselor, yet somehow has put me in a mood that can be classified as nothing less than giddy.

Images of Edward in a well tailored navy suit standing amid a stock of caskets and reeking of embalming fluid carry me back to my class.

* * *

As I gaze over the lunch table strewn with pudding cups, half sandwiches, and Emmett's Twizzlers, I lock onto Eric Yorkie seated a few tables away.

Eric is greasy.

There is no denying it. Coating his face resulting in acne, seeping from his scalp resulting in stringy hair, there is oil oozing from his every pore.

People don't want to run their fingers through his oily, slick hair.

Right now this makes him appealing to me.

I watch as Lauren runs her hand through Edward's hair, his lion's mane of free standing locks. I find myself wanting to cut her with my plastic cafeteria issued knife. I want to slice her hand clean off her body with my dull, easily bent utensil. It would probably be difficult to actually separate the limb, but I would enjoy the extra pain inflicted by using such an inappropriate tool.

Edward leans away from her touch and says something dismissing to get her to leave her perch between us at our lunch table.

She slides off in a motion that makes her already too short skirt ride up even higher on her thighs. My inner slur of "_whore_" almost makes it through my clenched jaw. I actually whistle through my teeth a little in my repression.

Edward's eyes are searching my face for my response, but I'm not looking at him. I'm looking past to greasy Eric and wondering why I couldn't be infatuated with someone _easy_.

No one wants to run their hands through Eric's hair. If I wanted that right, I could own it solely, without worry over who else would attempt to stake a claim.

With Edward, however, it seems like everyone with a uterus wants to be touching him all the time.

This is absolutely an exaggeration, but the basic point is true.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he asks as he begins to drum his fingers across the table's edge.

I think of replying that he has dashed my dreams of owning a funeral home. There is no way grieving widows could keep their hands off him.

"Maybe you should stop showering," I murmur. In my head his rhythm beats out _not-mine not-mine not-mine_ over and over.

In the past few weeks I have learned that if I were to accurately fill in a featured quiz in _Teen Beat_ I would definitely qualify as a 'jealous person'.

_Why yes options b, c, d, d, and a; I do clearly lean towards a possessive personality. _

He sighs and slides his chair slightly closer. The linoleum fights against the metal, rewarding his effort with an unpleasant screech. The shrill noise makes me shudder and still leaves us at least two feet apart.

We're always at least two feet apart.

Still, I reward him with a smile and offer to share my pudding cup. Because I know he's trying, and I believe what he said a few weeks ago when I sat on the cold curb. He obliges and digs in with his own spoon and I enjoy the stolen moment.

A giggle erupts from the right, the sound tumbling from Alice's lips as Jasper brushes his finger tips against her ribs.

They always touch. Always.

Not necessarily in a lewd or indecent way, although the current 'tickle fest' that's developing is a bit much. Rather, a hand pressed to the small of her back or fingers tracing the hair line at the nape of his neck. A point of physical connection is maintained. A beacon declaring exclusivity.

I am incredibly annoyed.

I only notice the physical connection because of my own deficit of touch. Where Alice and Jasper are all hands and feet intertwining, Edward and I exist without contact.

Everyone knows that they are an item; they have melded into one entity in the view of the student body. When Rose asks Jasper what time he'll be somewhere, it is understood that his arrival will include Alice.

They are a _given. _

As for me and Edward…

People wouldn't guess that he declared his intention to capture me based on our two foot separation at all times. Sharing pudding does not translate to a romantic match.

Most of the time, I don't mind this. I don't generally give off the 'tickle me' vibe. However, if Edward was running his fingertips over my ribs, chances are Lauren wouldn't be able to fit between us in order to spread her pheromones all over his head.

While I'm making my way to Biology I realize that if I were entwining my fingers in his mane Lauren wouldn't have ample room to squeeze between us either. Or I could rub my hands across his shoulders, or straddle him in his metal folding chair. I could have given into any of the strange late night television inspired impulses I've been having lately and this would probably no longer be an issue.

However, over the past two weeks Edward has given no opportunity for touch. Aside from gripping his hand to escape from Emmett's birthday, I have not felt one inch of skin against my own.

He gives me his words, spending time discussing favorites. I can name his top five favorite films, movies, and CDs; his favorite type of hot sauce; what label of black t-shirts he prefers; and even his toothpaste brand.

He is a Crest man, through and through.

But he has yet to give me his skin.

I am trying to follow his lead, allowing him to set some form of pace. Without any prior relationship experience and an already loose hold on regular interaction, I am out of my depth. My desire to feel and caress is rivaled only by my fear of ruining something I want so much. I feel as if this whole thing is so tentative it could literally pull away from my fingertips with one wrong move.

Jasper insists that if I initiate Edward will follow, claiming that no boy would resist a girl he has so obviously shown interest in. He says that no one will be touching at all if one of us doesn't make the first move.

My doubts on Edward's desire to touch have escalated in direct proportion to the time that passes from his confession. I fear he thinks of me broken, afraid to handle me with anything but kid gloves, but I can't spit out the question to clarify his distance.

A thousand words can be shared over dozens of conversations, but I can't seem to ask why he won't touch me.

I'm chicken shit.

* * *

"You ready?" Jasper questions as he wipes his palms across his jeans in an attempt to quell his nervous sweat. He reaches into his glove box to obtain a small bottle and I barely manage to escape before he begins to cloud the vehicle with the beach inspired scent.

Jasper has started wearing cologne.

His once earthy boy musk has been replaced with a bottled spray that brings to mind advertisements featuring blonde surfers in board shorts displaying tan abs and carefully sculpted windswept hair.

Jasper can't swim, and I don't think he owns a hairbrush. Also, his skin is as white as the t-shirts he favors, just like the rest of us inhabiting the town the sun has forgotten.

After I escape the Vega, I find myself graced with a view of the Cullen home. It is all hard lines and crisp white, and its order and pallor make it a disparity against the surrounding chaotic greens and browns of the forest.

The steadily falling afternoon rain has left a protective wet shine over the driveway. Gray mirrors gray, the reflective puddles on the ground echoing back a wetter version of the cloudy sky. It is the type of day that makes me want to spin in circles, to see if my reality can be further disrupted by the mirror image.

My own reflection is cast down from my feet, blurry and detached. I wish I could escape with it into this upside down world.

Instead Jasper is ushering me onto the front porch and ringing the doorbell before I can run away and hide in the woods. He must have known I was thinking of fleeing.

"You can't run. Don't think you're the only one who is not looking forward to this whole meet-the-parents experience," he whispers as we wait for the inevitable opening of the giant white door.

Jasper has been a wreck every time this dinner has been mentioned. Alice informed us that her parents were forcing a meet and greet once they realized she was dating again. Being privy to how her last relationship was revealed to the family, I wasn't surprised that they insisted on meeting Jasper. The not so optional get-together has been hanging over us for two weeks. As for how I got lumped into the whole thing is unclear, but I am standing on the porch nonetheless when the door swings wide.

"Welcome!" We are greeted by the modern version of June Cleaver, and when I cross the threshold into the oversized foyer I can't help but feel like I'm stepping into one of the many reruns on TV Land that Rose and I have been watching for the last year. Her meticulous blue cardigan and shell combo matches the blue flowers of the apron she is wearing perfectly and I feel like she is an alien.

"Hello, I am Mrs. Cullen but you must call me Esme," she shakes Jasper's hand and leans in to hug me awkwardly. I wasn't expecting the maneuver and therefore only mange to bring one mostly trapped arm up to pat her forearm as she pulls away. The smell of vanilla is eclipsing even Jasper's overdose of sea and sand.

"Hello," Jasper and I both murmur in sync, and I begin to let my eyes wander in an effort to find Alice and Edward.

Jasper has frozen and become useless, leaving me to fend for us both in front of the most intimidating housewife I have ever encountered. I try to search my brain for a customary phrase to throw out that suits the occasion. All I can come up with is _please,_ _thank you, _or _pardon me_; the only polite sayings that willingly spring to mind. Realizing that none of them works, I settle for trying to smile sweetly and elbowing Jasper in the ribs.

"Ouch," he grunts, but springs to life as I had intended.

"You have a lovely home Mrs. Cullen," he offers, filling in the expression that I could not, charming her with his slightly dimpled smile.

A wave of thankfulness washes over me that somehow the fates concocted a scenario where I am here with my best friend. If I were facing Esme alone I would surely have accidently said something offensive and been banished.

"Thank you dear, don't forget it's Esme," she smiles at him and begins to lead us deeper into the house. As we walk I notice her hair is coiled upon her head into a French twist without a single flyaway in sight. While this is meant to convey order and perfection, the resulting flawlessness just makes me curious if she is wearing a wig.

We are led through a sitting room, a formal living room, and a family room on our way to the great room. Once we arrive Esme directs us towards an over stuffed sofa and motions with her outstretched arm that we are to sit down. Immediately I start picking at the seam of my jeans, my hands beginning their awkward anxious habit in an attempt to calm my nerves.

Edward and Alice have yet to make an appearance, and I'm starting to wonder if we somehow ended up at the wrong house. Perhaps this is an elaborate ploy to lure unsuspecting victims into a serial killer's clutches. However, it seems unlikely that a murderer would be so color coordinated, even donning the perfect shade of crimson lipstick.

"I'll be right back with some cookies while we wait. I just sent Edward and Alice to the store with their father for one last ingredient," Esme offers the explanation and glides gracefully from the room.

Jasper takes the opportunity to wipe the accumulated sweat from his brow before relaxing against the couch.

"Do you think that's a wig?" I whisper.

"What? No, they would've tipped us off about a wig so we wouldn't stare. Some people just appreciate conditioner, Bella," Jasper snips back. I forgive his snide tone because I know it comes from his nerves.

Esme slips back in with a tray full of Oreos and Nutter Butters, a scrumptious offering marred only by the confusing detail of an oven mitt.

"Thank you so much, these look delicious," Jasper charms.

He elbows me with extra force so my addition of, "Thanks," comes out as a croak.

"You're welcome. I just pulled them from the oven a few minutes ago so they should still be warm," she picks up a Nutter Butter and blows on it before taking a dainty nibble.

"What?" The question slips from my lips before I can help it, because I'm pretty sure Esme just suggested that _she_ cooked what is obviously a store bought cookie.

Jasper covers my question with a grand display of 'oos' and 'ahs' while rubbing his tummy.

Thankfully, the front door opens before the issue can be further discussed. The sound of the rest of the dinner party can be heard entering the house. Esme leaves the room once more to help Carlisle carry bags to the kitchen.

"Jasper!" Alice squeaks as she enters the room, rushing over to the couch and bouncing on the balls of her feet as he stands.

He smiles at her and goes in for a hug, but Alice dodges and grabs one of his hands instead in an awkward shake. It seems that no one is able to handle greetings in the right way tonight. In preparation for this dinner Alice not only chose Jasper's current attire, but also drilled into him the need to maintain adequate distance to calm her parents' fears. Her track record of blatant physical displays is something she's trying to prove she's past. It is worth noting that I managed not to make a comment suggesting that she follows Edward's lead.

"Oh, right. Sorry," Jasper mutters and wipes his brow yet again, patting his palms against his jeans.

Edward is close behind, his presence bringing immediate comfort. Once again I find myself wishing I was the kind of girl who could run up and envelop him. At least I am able to still my fingers from their attempts to wear through my denim as I rise and cross to him.

He offers me a crooked smile. "Sorry we weren't here, please tell me you didn't say anything about the cookies."

"You should have mentioned that your mom is…well, is how she is. I almost blew it, but Jasper covered with a performance worthy of a commercial spot for Nutter Butters."

He sighs in relief, shaking his head slightly, "It's not everyday you can slip into conversation that your mother passes store bought items as her own. Yeah, I have no way of explaining that. But hang in there, we'll make it through."

Worrying about others' feelings feels foreign, like wearing someone else's skin stretched across my frame. I know that making a good impression is important since I've decided I want to keep Edward, but it has been so long since I've attempted to be socially acceptable. This is yet another bizarre step along the path to my reemergence into the world of the living. I am unsure of how to react and respond; calculating what I say and where I stand, and it just doesn't fit me.

His easy manner is contagious but I can't help but caution, "I just want you to know there is no way I'm _not_ going to mess up this family dinner."

"I'm actually looking forward to how this plays out," he chuckles.

Edward extends his hand towards my own before catching himself and returning it safely to his pocket.

The movement appears in slow motion, sending a shock through me. It suddenly becomes clear that Edward _wants_ to touch me but is refraining. I avoid contemplating his reason, and focus on the desire that I have just witnessed. With the realization that Edward will not shrink away from my skin, I am emboldened. This is my golden moment and I will seize it despite the less than ideal circumstances.

My feet carry me closer, breaking our two foot bubble until my chest is mere inches from Edward's, the tips of our sneakers now touching. He peers down at me with wide eyes at our new proximity, and I am close enough to see the spread of faded freckles across the bridge of his nose, close enough to smell his sweet exhalation as his breath picks up.

This is the most inopportune time to decide that I am going to touch Edward. We are about to sit down for dinner with his bat shit crazy parents and all I want to do is press myself into him, forsaking any need to be proper.

He is standing with his hands at his sides, but his body leans closer to my own. This is all the additional confirmation I need. I bring my fingertips to drag up his arms, following the lines of his muscles beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt as I trace my way to the top of his shoulders. My jagged nails catch on the threads of his shirt, but I will not be deterred. I am able to bring my eyes away from his well sculpted arms to his face, rewarded with an honest, sweet smile on the lips I have been watching for so long. Encouraged, I splay my hands against his shoulders, applying pressure in my fingertips as I draw them closer around his neck. He seems so tall when I am this close.

At last, I am where I want to be.

My fingers curl into the unruly bronze at his nape, and Edward smiles a little wider. He closes the last inch between us and finally moves his arms up to encircle me. I buzz with the contact, elation seeping through my veins, and all I want is more.

"Edward, I won't break," I whisper, wanting to encourage him.

He grips my lower back and squeezes slightly as he draws me closer. I turn my head and lay my cheek across his chest, greeted with warmth and the bass tones of his heartbeat pumping out a quick rhythm that matches my own. His breath stirs my hair and I watch the strands jump in my line of view, in sync with his inhalation. Edward moves his hands to rub my back, paying attention to every vertebrae of my spine before looping his fingers into my hair.

My awareness of each miniscule movement is absurd. I respond to a mere hug as if an entire pool has been offered to someone so thirsty they were craving only a droplet. Yet the contact sooths and satiates, and I am far from complaining.

"Dinner time!" Esme calls from the dinning room, interrupting with her call to a meal that will be anything but dull.

* * *

**A/N: What is your favorite cookie?**


End file.
